My Reflection
by quaquaquaqua
Summary: Political!Harry - Uncouth, disrespectful, disillusioned, Harry Potter carves his mark in the Wizarding World as the prince of Slytherin and youngest leader of the Wizengamot. In the near future, James Potter will rise from the dead and ruin a few things.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: Not mine. JKR's

Edited as of 21 September 2012.

Prologue

Introducing Harry Potter: Detention and How he got out of it

Or

Peace in Stonewall Primary and What Became of It

"Here's the thing, Headmistress. If - and I'm only saying _if _of course – but if you actually believe me to be in any way responsible for my cousin and his friends'…accident then let me set the record straight with the things you hold me accountable for."

Mrs Spencer, the newly appointed Headmistress of Stonewall Primary who had thus far succeeded in achieving a period of peace lasting twelve days, knew very well that the careful balance of that peace (or perhaps what was left of it) was now resting delicately in the hands of Stonewall's most notorious student.

Harry Potter.

A little on the underweight side, made only more obvious by his ill-fitting outfits, his intelligent, almost glowing emerald eyes that lurked behind his crooked glasses helpfully made up for his small frame. He had a delicate face, the type that screamed innocence if not for the mouth that seemed to be arranged and tilted into a permanent smirk.

It had only been twelve days since Mrs Spencer had first begun her endeavour as Headmistress, but twelve days were enough for anyone to acquaint themselves with the strange child.

"Harry," she sighed, eyes darting to the clock that hung behind him. "Please, by all means proceed."

And proceed he did.

"Half an hour ago, my cousin Dudley drags himself and his goons – _friends _sorry – to your office complaining about certain…changes that had occurred in him. For reasons beyond the known, Dudley's nose seemed to resemble a pig's, beyond what his typical appearance usually suggests.

"Of course, the first person they blamed was me. But let me take a moment to list the things they give me credit for."

Here was the curious thing about Harry Potter – troublemaker though he was (and Mrs Spencer dared to say that anyone with a decent training in teaching could sniff his mischief as soon as they saw him), there was one thing he was better at than sending the school into chaos.

Harry Potter, unfortunately for the majority of the students who disliked him and made it their business to get him into trouble, also had the quickest mind Mrs Spencer had yet to see in a child his age, with a matching sharp tongue that seemed to talk his way through any loophole. For the various enemies the boy had accumulated on the playground, this meant that most times he would emerge from whatever scuffle they had dragged him into both unscathed and as the victor. As such, despite being the boy who had sat the most times in the Headmistress's Office (four hundred and twenty-two including this one), Harry Potter's record was undoubtedly the cleanest in Stonewall Primary.

As for how he did it, Mrs Spencer's predecessor Ms Colby had remained strangely quiet.

"Somehow," the boy continued, "I seem to be responsible for altering the looks my cousin was _gifted_ with at birth. If that's what you're suggesting madam, which given the detentions you've issued me with seems to be so, then you're accusing me of having, well, _magical powers. _

"My so-called _magical powers_, madam, must have allowed me to _magically _change my cousin's nose from one unfavourable shape to another. Maybe I chanted a curse or set the fairies on him, but _magically - _for no doubt it was magic – Dudley Dursley's nose transformed into a pig snout. In your eyes of course, how could there be any other explanation? How else could you punish Harry Potter, the boy that all four of his friends witnessed to be standing _on the opposite side of the playground _when Dudley sprouted his nose, for being the sole offender to my cousin's plight?"

Mrs Spencer sighed. As the boy continued, she took the time to rub her temples, nursing the growing headache with futility. That was the other thing Harry Potter excelled at – giving his teachers headaches.

"Well then, Mister Potter," she finally said after he had finished. "Since you seem so adamant in defending your innocence, why don't you give me _your _explanation to these recent…developments amongst your classmates?"

Harry Potter's smirk grew. "As growing children, Headmistress, there comes a time when a boy reaches his adolescent years and his body begins to undergo certain changes. Come to think of it, this is hardly a phenomenon as girls only do the same. We've never questioned sudden height growth sprouts or other body parts undergoing change. We don't give a second thought to voice changes or hair sprouting in various places, or even sudden acne eruptions like Piers just the other day. The journey through puberty is, I have heard, a perilous one full of obstacles and embarrassment. Why then should we make any fuss out of Dudley's passage into adulthood when instead, we should be encouraging him to embrace these changes of nature with pride and accept who he is?"

Mrs Spencer blinked. She opened her mouth, ready to say something, then for many times thought better of it. "You think this is the result of _puberty?" _she finally spluttered.

Harry shrugged. "Care to come up with a better explanation, Mrs Spencer?" He leaned in, eyes glinting. "After all, surely even _you _cannot believe in _magic_."

For a moment, the young boy's expression seemed to change. No longer was he amused but the frown and that bitter turn of his mouth suggested to the Headmistress something else he hadn't told her. Something that ran far deeper than what Mrs Spencer would ever understand.

"Perhaps they never told you, Headmistress," he said, sounding ever so bitter, "but there's no such thing as magic."

_-wizardry-_

Minutes after Harry Potter had finally left her office, Headmistress Spencer was nursing her headache with a cup of tea.

Peace, however, had yet to settle, for after moments of being established, it was once again disturbed, this time by an interruption at the fireplace.

The fireplace, an oddity in the Headmistress's Office that had strangely been installed five years ago under the insistence of the previous Headmistress, had suddenly lit up in vibrant flames of green.

Mrs Spencer jumped, the cup in her hand falling to the ground and staining the once pristine carpet with hot tea.

Nothing however could compare to what had occurred next.

As a teacher for well over four decades, Mrs Spencer had her share of surprises. Up until an hour ago, the strangest thing she had encountered in her career had been Dudley Dursley's pig snout.

This, however, took the cake.

For out of the green fire stepped a man, a man dressed peculiarly in a cloak of some sort and looking extremely exhausted.

"Jesus H. Christ," she said faintly.

The man, having noticed her, frowned a little. "I'm afraid you're a little mistaken there, madam. The name's Augustus Bones, representative of the Ministry of Magic, the Improper Use of Magic Office."

Mrs Spencer's mouth opened.

Her mind whirled back to the last moments she had spent in the company of the former Headmistress, during which she had surmised that Mrs Colby's early retirement was due to mental instability…

"Of course, I imagine your predecessor has already informed you of our presence," Augustus Bones continued smoothly. "Let me assure you that this…interaction we have between your world and ours is not a common occurrence. To my knowledge, there is only one other purely Muggle place the Floo Network makes exceptions for, and that's the Muggle Prime Minister's office. We've only taken the precautions necessary in installing the Floo passage out of convenience. Harry Potter, as you know, is a student of your school."

"Harry Potter," she prompted echoed.

The Headmaster of Stonewall Primary was dumbstruck. Harry Potter; of course. She should have known that whatever strange, inexplicable incident occurring in Stonewall would undoubtedly lead to him.

Augustus Bones took her words as the signal needed for him to elaborate.

"Harry Potter, you see," he continued, "is a rather unique case. In our line of work, average underage wizards typically initiate around twenty Minor Infractions of accidental magic before they begin their formal education. In the rare case that their magic becomes Volatile or At Risk of Exposure, the Office is notified and Obliviators are sent to moderate the memories of any non-magical persons involved.

"In the case of Harry Potter however, nothing is typical. The child undoubtedly causes my department the most disturbances out of the past century's records of underage cases, so often that the unofficial name of the Improper Use of Magic Office has become the 'Harry Potter Office'. The story of our exploits has become a legend in itself, and the amount of press coverage we receive is more than what even the likes of _Lockhart _is willing to receive. And believe me Headmistress Spencer; that is truly saying something."

Augustus shook his head in incredulity. "That, precisely, is also the reason why the Floo Network has allowed us an entrance to your office. Believe me, Harry Potter's exploits have yet to end. Despite the growing weight of endless consequences falling on him, his days of reigning the Harry Potter Office are far from over."

"Hang on a sec there," Mrs Spencer finally said as she regained the control of her senses. "You're saying the boy isn't normal, even by _your _standards?"

"There is no question, madam, that Harry Potter is anything but special," Augustus answered firmly. "From a young age, Mister Potter has defied all norms. There is much to speculate about his future."

Augustus circled the room, taking his time to inspect the items Mrs Spencer had arranged around her office.

"Let me elaborate a little for you. I realise that the Muggle tradition for inheritance tends to dictate its travelling down the bloodline. Picture, however, a community far smaller than yours, in which even those with what we consider to be the most diluted of magical blood still has flowing in them the blood of a hundred ancient houses, ancestors of the houses around today. Unlike you Muggle folk, our inheritance is not bestowed by merely _having _the blood of one house or another in our veins. No, our magical inheritance is given by _worth. _It is the worthiness of the man whose veins flows with the blood of his ancestors that truly decides the extent of his inheritance.

"And Harry Potter, well…as a child, perhaps some of his inheritance has already manifested. The boy survived the Killing Curse for a reason after all, though that is still largely speculation…But in the years to come, his powers will exceed even the wildest of legends that surround his story. The child you have in your hands is not a mere boy, madam, but a prince."

Mrs Spencer blinked at the word, finally something her whirring mind could grasp. A prince? Truly?

"Expect, therefore, regular visits from our people. I will, of course, notify you before we begin any memory modification. On the children, not you I mean," Augustus hastily reassured Mrs Spencer, perhaps sensing the horror that had crept onto her face. "The Office came to the decision that as you are an authority figure currently fixated in Mister Potter's life, it would be wise to keep you slightly informed."

As he finished, Augustus turned to the window, peeping through the half-opened blinds at perhaps the view of the playground which the location of the office conveniently offered. Perhaps he spotted the boy he was looking for, for he smiled for an instant.

"Rest assured, that boy will go far, madam."

Outside, the children were playing happily. Harry Potter was somewhere among them, she was sure. It was such a beautiful day, with the bright sun lighting up the playground like some idyllic setting to the perfect childhood. She could almost hear the birds chirping outside in agreement.

At that point precisely, Mrs Spencer came to an unfortunate conclusion: For the years to come, peace at Stonewall Primary would never again see the light of day.


	2. Chapter the first: meeting

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Chapter the First

Meeting

"_I've lived with the Dursleys for ten years and not once did you come. Not once did any of you come for me."_

"Hurry up, boy," Aunt Petunia shrilled, "I can smell the bacon burning."

In response to his ever so affectionate aunt, Harry grunted.

"Comb your hair," Uncle Vernon greeted him over his newspaper, as part of the morning weekly ritual.

That, Harry didn't bother with a response.

A few simple things one needed to know about Harry Potter before meeting him: he lived in the cupboard underneath the stairs of his relatives' suburban home, his proudest feature was the lightning scar that lay prominently on the middle of his forehead despite all attempts made at removing it, and his most prized possession was the pair of old, slightly crooked glasses his family had given him as a present from the thrift shop some years ago.

A few more lesser-known things one _ought _to know about Harry Potter before meeting him: his parents had died in a drunken car crash though he secretly liked to think they hated the Dursleys just as much as he did and would have never let him live here, he favourite memory was the look on Dudley's face at the doctors' when he realised the pig snout was there to stay, and his lifelong dream was to see the looks on the Dursleys' faces when he kicked them out to the curb in the courtroom, after he'd succeeded in life on his own means.

For despite being underweight and underfed, despite most of his possessions having first endured tunnelling through Dudley, there was still one thing which Harry Potter had in great abundance: Pride.

Countless times he had entertained the notion of running away. A life on the streets, or at a homeless shelter, or in an orphanage that would accept him, might be a life far better than what the Dursleys had reluctantly provided him with. But to run away would, to both him and the Dursleys, be a sure sign that the Dursleys had won.

There was no lost love between him and the Dursleys. In fact, it would be fair to say that they were pining for the day when they finally managed to push their ward over the edge and force him to leave their lives. For that reason, there was absolutely no way _he _would be the first to leave. He was going to succeed in life – he was going to make it to university and earn a six-figure salary and have a fancy apartment somewhere in London – and he was going to make the Dursleys pay back every penny they owed him. One day, somewhere in a courtroom and before hundreds of witnesses, the Dursleys were going to be stripped of everything they owned and Harry Potter was going to walk out of there triumphant.

There was also the fact that, despite being endlessly proud and capable of defending himself, there was still a part of the ten-year-old that was scared. Terrified that life onwards wouldn't turn out to be as great as he had dreamt it to be.

And thus, Harry stayed.

Meanwhile, Dudley was busy counting his presents.

"Thirty-six," he said, looking up at his mother and father. "That's two less than last year."

_And here we go, _Harry thought. This year, however, the waterworks were destined to be stopped before they began.

"You forgot Aunt Marge's present, Dud," he drawled casually as he eyed Uncle Vernon's newspaper. "Not to mention _my _present for you."

Dudley turned white. "Thirty-seven presents?" he squeaked. "Mummy, I-I'm fine with thirty-seven. I don't want any more." He leaned in a little when his mother turned away, knowing that what he had to say would ruin whatever image he'd managed to cultivate in Petunia Dursley's head. "You keep your freakishness to yourself!"

Harry smirked.

For there was one other thing rather interesting about the character that was Harry Potter, and that was that Harry was unusually talented at willing things to happen.

Once, Aunt Petunia had taken a pair of kitchen scissors and then attempted to cut his hair so short he was almost bald except for his bangs, which she left "to hide that horrible scar." Harry hadn't bothered stopping her, for his hair never looked good no matter what he did to it. But when Dudley had laughed himself silly at him, Harry could no longer contain his anger and he'd given his cousin a glare so ferocious that as soon as Dudley saw the look on Harry's face, he'd cowered and suddenly every hair on his head had fallen off.

Needless to say, Aunt Petunia wasn't very happy about that.

Then there was that time when Aunt Petunia had tried to force him into a revolting brown sweater with orange puff balls that had once been Dudley's, but no matter how hard she tried, the sweater seemed more willing to stick itself onto _her_ until it'd almost strangled her, had not Harry silently willed the sweater to tear itself to pieces. Which it promptly did.

There was also the countless other times in which Dudley and his gang had attempted to chase Harry down an alley, and Harry, in a state of panic, had desperately hoped a solid brick wall would appear between him and the bullies, only to soon realize that he'd gotten his wish when one _did _suddenly appear behind him.

Today, however, was all talk but nothing was to go wrong. Dudley's Big Day had come and honestly, it would be easier for everyone if he just got what he wanted.

Moments later, the family had assembled outside the door, complete with Dudley's friend Piers and Harry himself. Nobody wanted him there.

"I'm warning you," Vernon muttered in a growl, putting his large purple face right up close to Harry's when the others weren't looking. "I'm warning you now, boy - any funny business, anything at all - and you'll be in-"

"I'll be in that cupboard from now until Christmas, yes, yes, I _know." _Harry rolled his eyes. "There's no need to be so repetitive, Uncle. We'd both benefit if you only informed me once – I'm spared from having to hear your voice, you're spared from having to use it."

Vernon looked like he wanted to say something but, for some reason, decided to listen to Harry and merely glared at him once more before getting in the car.

While he drove, Uncle Vernon complained to Aunt Petunia. He liked to complain about things: people at work, Harry, the council, Harry, the bank, and Harry were just a few of his favorite subjects. This morning, it was motorcycles.

"…roaring along like maniacs, the young hoodlums," he said, as a motorcycle overtook them.

"I had a dream about a motorcycle last night," said Harry before he realized he had spoken out loud. "It was flying."

Uncle Vernon nearly crashed into the car in front. He turned right around in his seat and yelled at Harry, his face like a gigantic beet with a moustache: "MOTORCYCLES DON'T FLY!"

Dudley and Piers sniggered.

"I know they don't," Harry replied sharply, looking out the window. "Calm yourself, will you? It was only a dream."

_I wish it wasn't. I wish they did fly. Then one day, when I'm old enough and filthy rich, I'll climb on and ride off to the sunset. I'll leave the lot of you stripped naked with nothing left, not even your dignity, and I'll never, ever look back._

_-wizardry-_

The Incident happened after lunch when Dudley dragged them off to the Reptile House.

It was cool and dark in there, with lit windows all along the walls. Behind the glass, all sorts of lizards and snakes were crawling and slithering over bits of wood and stone. Dudley quickly found the largest snake in the place. It could have wrapped its body twice around Uncle Vernon's car and crushed it into a trash can - but at the moment it didn't look in the mood. In fact, it was fast asleep.

Dudley stood with his nose pressed against the glass, staring at the glistening brown coils. "Make it move," he whined at his father. Uncle Vernon tapped on the glass, but the snake didn't budge.

"Do it again," Dudley ordered. Uncle Vernon rapped the glass smartly with his knuckles, but the snake just snoozed on.

"This is boring," Dudley moaned. He shuffled away, his parents and Piers soon following.

For some reason, the reptile's lack of response only drew Harry closer to the cage. He wouldn't have been surprised if it had died of boredom itself - no company except stupid people drumming their fingers on the glass trying to disturb it all day long. Almost as bad as _living _with the spectators who saw you as a freak.

The snake suddenly opened its beady eyes. Slowly, very slowly, it raised its head until its eyes were on a level with Harry's.

It winked.

Harry stared. Then he looked quickly around to see if anyone was watching, and when no one was, he winked back, feeling a little smug that the snake had responded to _his _presence but had ignored Dudley. Events like this didn't happen very often.

If things couldn't get any stranger, the snake jerked its head toward Uncle Vernon and Dudley, then rolled its eyes. It gave Harry a look that said quite plainly, "I get that all the time."

"Tell me about it," Harry murmured through the glass, half to himself, half to the snake. "Don't you just wish they'd give you a break?"

The snake nodded vigorously.

"Where do you come from, anyway?" Harry asked.

The snake jabbed its tail at a little sign next to the glass. Harry peered at it.

_Boa Constrictor, Brazil._

"Brazil. That's better than plain old England. Was it nice there?"

The boa constrictor jabbed its tail at the sign again and Harry read on: _This specimen was bred in the zoo. _"Ah, I see - you've never actually been to Brazil."

The snake shook its head, almost rather somberly. "You're just like me then," Harry murmured, quietly and bitterly. "I'm bred in captivity too. I never knew my parents."

Of course, reptiles left their young as soon as they hatched, so boa constrictor didn't find it difficult to agree with him.

"Dreadful, issssn't it?"

Harry, too caught up in his misery to register the fact that a snake had just spoken to him, only nodded in agreement. "See this scar? That's all I have left of my mum and dad. I suppose I should feel lucky to have been spared. They died instantly, I was told." He leaned in a little, nose slightly touching the glass. "But sometimes? Sometimes I wish it could've been-"

"DUDLEY! MR. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHAT IT'S DOING!"

Harry jumped.

Dudley came waddling toward them as fast as he could. "Out of the way, you," he said, fist raised, about to punch Harry. Harry, thankfully, moved out of the way just in time, and looked to see Dudley's small little snout pressed firmly against the glass, watching the snake as it hissed at him.

"Sssstupid little human…" the snake muttered.

Dudley snickered, and for a second Harry wondered if he understood what the snake had just said.

For the next half hour, Dudley hogged the glass pane enclosing the boa constrictor, ignoring the irritated visitors and instead posing for the photos, which Petunia was only too glad to take.

Harry seethed. For once, even for just a few moments, he had found someone worthy of talking to, someone who seemed to understand what it felt like to be different, caged and parentless. He almost wished the glass pane would disappear and Dudley would topple right inside the exhibit with the snake – if it wasn't for the fact that he knew if that happened, he'd be the first to blame. It was Dudley's birthday after all.

It was then that the miracle happened. One moment the snake was there, the next, it had suddenly _disappeared_ as if it had never been the in the first place.

For a moment, every person crowded round the exhibit just stared. Then, and only after he had made all of them search and search thoroughly for the snake inside its small, made-up habitat, Dudley Dursley threw one of his infamous tantrums.

Right in the middle of the reptile room.

"WHERE'S MY SNAKE? I WANT MY SNAKE! WHERE HAS IT _GONE?"_

Vernon and Petunia stuttered, clearly bewildered at how to solve the situation themselves. Piers merely looked confused.

The zoo keepers were soon called up, and when they too failed to find the vanished snake, the visitors were soon hurried out and the zoo was closed for the day.

"I'm afraid you'll have to leave too, son," one of them informed Dudley who had refused to leave, though Harry could have sworn he heard relief. "Boa constrictors are extremely dangerous. In fact, when they reach maturity, these beasts can grow up to fourteen feet long. Their prey range from rats to small _pigs_."

That seemed to get Dudley out rather quickly, Harry realized.

The rest of the day was spent at the nearby museum, where Harry managed to walk off on his own without the others realizing, spending his time strolling around the fourth floor, where a large exhibit on Egyptian mummies was being held. Nothing peculiar happened and the Dursleys went home rather content, dropping off Piers along the way.

It was what waited at home, particularly inside Harry's cupboard, which truly tipped the iceberg. For curled up fast asleep under Harry's blanket and awaiting his arrival, was the very boa constrictor that at disappeared from the zoo.

_-wizardry-_

Having a predator that could easily strangle grown men and swallowed meals the size of small pigs for food as a friend was surprisingly a lot better for Harry than not having one.

For one, the Dursleys were completely terrified when Aunt Petunia had opened Harry's cupboard the next morning, only to find a giant, deadly snake curled around her nephew's sleeping figure. It had reached the point when no help was needed in the kitchen, the grass looked far neater with its weeds and Harry didn't even need to cook the Dursleys their meals.

For another, word had somehow gotten out that the Dursleys' nephew owned a large, terrifying snake, and every student at school was now completely, utterly terrified of Harry. They eyed him up, expecting a monster to pop up from underneath his clothes at any moment, and left him alone during times Harry usually spent dealing with his persecutors.

Life, suddenly, was a lot better.

Then Uncle Vernon just had to go and ring the zoo keepers up.

After two weeks of bliss, the snake had to go. Uncle Vernon smugly informed Harry that the zoo keepers were sending their men to pick up the snake on Saturday, at noon. It was all Harry could do to not to imagine Uncle Vernon punching himself, hard, in the face.

"I expect you'll be going back to where you came from," he told his companion rather morosely on Friday. Aunt Petunia had even baked a cake, made just for the occasion. "They might even tighten up the security a bit, just in case you try to escape again. I guess you'll never get to see Brazil now."

The boa constrictor coiled its way around Harry's neck, an action it had gotten used to doing after Harry realized it meant no harm. _"Thank you, human. You have helped me come far as it is."_

Harry shrugged. "I wish you could stay, I really do. But you see how the Dursleys treat me. You're probably better off in your glass cage anyway."

"_I'm better off in Brazil."_

_Brazil…that's it!_

And that was when Harry Potter decided on the brilliant plan of Apparating, underage, underdeveloped, trans-Atlantic, accompanied by a seven-foot boa constrictor, from England to _Brazil_.

_-wizardry-_

"What do you mean it ran away?"

Harry shrugged. The zoo manager glanced from his small frame to Uncle Vernon's monstrosity suspiciously before grimacing. "It can't be helped. This is one hell of a snake, and if it chooses to go, it'll do just that. Though I am curious – How exactly did you manage to keep it for two entire weeks?"

The obvious awe in the man's voice didn't help except to inspire Uncle Vernon's temper to a new level of anger. Thankfully, Aunt Petunia caught the signs and immediately engaged the zoo manager in conservation about her favourite topic – the miracle that was Dudley.

"It was all Dudley, of course. He was just so brave. He loves animals, you see, and it truly did break his tender heart to see the pet leave us all like that…"

Harry scowled. It was just like his Aunt Petunia to turn Dudley into the amazing hero of every story. Before he knew it, Aunt Petunia would be recalling Dudley reading bedtime stories to _his_snake and Dudley saving the day by running to his rescue as it came across perils unlike the kind ever seen in Little Whining.

_Ah, Dudley. I suppose he'll be parting the sea any day now._

By the time the zoo manager finally left, life was back to what it was, he'd been punished to stay in his cupboard till Christmas,

_-wizardry-_

"This is crazy, Dumbledore. Despite having thought it impossible, you have risen to a new level of insanity. No, you _define _insanity. What makes you think, in ten million years, with the world's entire supply of Felix Felicis, that this can possibly work?"

So spoke Severus Snape to his employer and the Headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore.

It was that time of year once again. September the first was approaching and Harry Potter had not responded to the five hundred and seventy-eight letters that had been sent to him. This meant, of course, Intervention. And in Dumbledore's eyes, who better than Snape?

"I do like to think the two of you have more in common than you wish to believe," Dumbledore answered distractedly over another one of the Minister Fudge's letters.

"Truthfully, Dumbledore?" Snape sneered. "_Hagrid_ would be more suitable than I am in matters such as this."

"Yes, I did consider Rubeus for a moment but something Minerva said awhile back made me reconsider," Dumbledore said serenely. "Harry Potter, even at such a tender age, is a powerful and wise wizard."

To these words, Snape snorted.

"You seem to have forgotten that this is the Boy-Who-Lived we are talking about," the Headmaster reprimanded. "It is only natural for him to show obvious signs of powerful magic, even at such a young age. And besides, you owe it to his parents."

Ah, yes. That just about did the trick.

"Just like his father, I'll bet," Snape muttered. The line had become his mantra over the past ten years, whenever someone mentioned the wonder that was the Boy-Who-Lived.

Albus sighed, then placed down his letter and Snape, half-satisfied that the Headmaster was finally taking him seriously and giving him his undivided attention, sat himself down and smugly took a lemon drop.

"Initially, I had not wanted you to know," the Headmaster said, suddenly very serious, "but it has come to my attention that Harry Potter is indeed a wizard in possession of a large resource of magic – and very little control. It's a badly kept secret at the Improper use of Magic Office (or as they call it the Harry Potter Office) that the Boy-Who-Lived is the underage offender of countless displays of accidental magic – some of which are quite genius, if I may say!"

Snape didn't know whether to snort or cry. "If _Potter _is the best our next generation of wizards has to offer..."

At these words, Albus seemed amused. "I'd rather like to think the opposite. Did you know? The boy managed to Apparate transatlantic to Brazil carrying a seven-foot boa constrictor, and arrive unharmed and undamaged. Moments after, he returned without his companion. Curiosity led the Improper Use of Magic Office to investigate the matter deeper, seeing as boa constrictors aren't exactly abundant in England…it soon became apparent that Harry had actually _set free _the snake from a Muggle zoo, by transporting the animal to the cupboard in his home. Clearly the boy shows both compassion and power."

_Or the uncanny ability to handle a boa constrictor, the most primitive of snakes, without being harmed, _Snape wanted to add. But it seemed Dumbledore was content with cherishing what he had, so he though better than to burst the little bubble. _If the brat isn't the naïve copy of his father, then surely Dumbledore cannot imagine him to be the Wizarding world's perfect little hero. His defeat of the Dark Lord at the height of his power still remains a mystery._

"Very well, Dumbledore," he said eventually, exaggerating his reluctance by drawling. "But I fully anticipate a pay rise. Why the Head of_ Gryffindor _is Deputy Headmistress, I truly cannot fathom."

Dumbledore, meanwhile, twinkled. "Thank you, Severus. Find some time to collect the Stone for me while you're at it, will you?"

_-wizardry-_

Harry met his first father figure seconds after Dudley's watch beeped the full hour, signifying his birthday. It was spent kneeling on cold, hard ground in a nearly dilapidated hut somewhere on a small island in the middle of the thundering ocean. Dudley (or perhaps it was the joint forces of his cousin and Uncle Vernon's) snored on.

Then quite suddenly, there came the sound of a loud bang and Uncle Vernon came skidding into the room, holding a rifle in his hands.

"Who's there?" he shouted. "I warn you - I'm armed!"

The front door had slammed open and with the stunning imitation of an extremely large bat, or perhaps a vampire who glided through the air, maybe even a Dracula himself, Severus Snape entered the room.

"Which one of you is Harry Potter?" he said calmly.

Had Harry not been so awed by this man's ability at rendering the Dursleys speechless, he would have noticed the way this strange man in a floor-sweeping black cloak seemed to sneer when he uttered his last name, the look in his eyes when they finally fell on him in the floor, and the slight opening of his mouth in an act of incredulity when he realized Harry was not only lying on the cold, hard, _stone_floor, but planned to sleep on it with nothing more than an itchy flannel for a blanket as well.

"I-I am," he found himself stuttering in a pathetically weak voice.

Snape snorted. "Of course," he muttered as he took out a pouch from beneath his cloak, "I should have known."

Exactly what he should have known, Harry never managed to understand, for before he could ask, Aunt Petunia had regained her voice and said in a very finally voice, "I remember you. Y-you're that Snape boy who went to that _freak _school with my f-freak of a sister."

Uncle Vernon made a funny rasping noise. "I demand that you leave at once, sir!" he said. "You are breaking and entering!"

Snape snorted, almost sizing the rifle up before giving Uncle Vernon a rather intimidating, sceptical look. Then he turned to Aunt Petunia. "I see you still haven't changed, Petunia. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was and still is the best magical school in Britain, far from _freaky, _aside from the occasional spell or potions mishap. We have a history and culture of well over a thousand years that has integrated deeply into the Wizarding society. While we happen to be on the subject of Hogwarts, care to explain why Potter here has yet to respond to the five-hundred and seventy eight letters we have sent him?"

Aunt Petunia's mouth hung, limp and wide open as she stared at him with fear and trepidation. Harry could only gape. _Witchcraft and wizardry? Magic? Spell mishap? _Was Snape insane? Was _Harry _insane?

One look on Harry's face and Snape's face twisted into one of utter torture. "_Please _tell me you've informed the boy beforehand of what magic was."

Vernon choked, finally coming to his senses. "I-you-he -"

"You mean to tell me that this boy doesn't know _anything_?" Snape hissed, eyes flashing dangerously.

Now here, Harry thought Snape was pushing it too far. Harry _did _know things. He went to school after all, and his marks were often the highest in the class.

"I know some things," he said hotly. "I can, you know, do maths and stuff."

Snape stared at him like he belonged in a mental ward. "Maths," he echoed, "and _stuff. _Reassuring as that is, Potter, I was referring to the world from which you and I, as well as your parents, come from. _"_

Harry blinked. For all he knew, there was only one world and that was the one he lived in. "What world?"

Snape looked like the sufferer of an extreme migraine. "You _don't know what you are?"_

Uncle Vernon suddenly found his voice. "Stop!" he commanded. "Stop right there! I forbid you!"

Snape sneered again. "I'd like to see you try and stop me, _Vernon."_

Chaos ensued.

Uncle Vernon fired, Petunia screamed, Dudley whimpered and dove for the bed. Only Harry stood still, ready to watch the mayhem and melee unfold. Snape jerked elegantly, his black cloak billowing as he moved.

Seconds of silence passed in which all that could be heard was the whistling wind and the roaring sea, which even then, seemed strangely quiet. By the time the Uncle Vernon had realized the late night visitor was still standing and not apparently injured, Severus Snape had already become a very angry man.

"How – _dare - _you," he hissed, reminding Harry of the boa constrictor he had once kept. "I have kept my temper in check for the entirety of this visit, but another word, Dursley, and upon my word I shall strike."

Vernon whimpered something that sounded vaguely like "mimblewhimble".

Snape took a deep breath, then turned back to the small boy who could only gape at him in awe. "Very well. Seeing as no one has seen it fit to inform you…Potter, you're a wizard."

Harry…_snorted. _"Perhaps you have yet to hear the news, sir," he muttered, "but magic _doesn't _exist."

Snape sneered. "And the _news, _Mister Potter, has gotten it quite wrong." Harry willed himself not to cower. "As much as I loathe to say this Potter, you happen to not only be a wizard but also one of the fortunate few that are what we deem _powerful_. To speak of all the times you have held the Improper Use of Magic Office in awe and we'd still be here by Christmas."

He glanced back to Harry's stunned relatives, at Petunia's mouth still hanging wide open, now in horror, at Vernon hiding behind his gun, which now seemed merely a stick, then drew a hand from under his cloak and handed Harry a letter.

Letter number five hundred and seventy-nine.

Harry blinked.

"A good idea to _read _it, Potter."

He opened the yellowish envelope, addressed in emerald green to _Mr. H. Potter, The Floor, Hut-on-the-Rock, The Sea_, pulled out the letter and read:

_Dear Mr. Potter, We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. _

Questions exploded inside Harry's head like fireworks and he couldn't decide which to ask first. One thing was clear, however. After so many years of being told he was nothing special and the supposed magic he performed was merely a figment of his imagination, Harry's eleventh year was going to be different. He was bitter and he was fed up. He didn't even want to go.

_I've lived with the Dursleys for ten years and not once did you come, Snape. Not once did any of you correct them when they told me that magic didn't exist. _

_What happened in your world that took you so many years to even bother a visit?_

After a few minutes he said softly, "How am I supposed to send a response if I don't even have an owl?"

Snape sighed. Deeply. "We'll need to get you an owl," he said simply. "It'll be Diagon Alley tomorrow. Be prepared to get your wand, robes, school books and stationary as well."

"He's not going," Uncle Vernon suddenly piped up.

Harry jumped a little. In truth, he'd almost forgotten the Dursleys still existed.

Snape, meanwhile, looked beyond amused.

"If a Muggle's weapon can't stop me from telling the boy he's a wizard, I wonder what it'll take to stop him from going to Hogwarts?"

At this, Harry cringed a little. Snape had already assumed Harry would be going. _Probably not many people reject the offer. Whatever world my parents came from never wanted me – why then shouldn't I give it the same courtesy?_

"But he's right, sir," he whispered from the ground. "I _won't _be going. I don't really _want _to go."

To the astonishment of every individual in the Hut, Harry flattened out the letter, shoved it back into the envelope, then handed it back to Snape. Five hundred and seventy-nine letters had come to nothing. All the effort Uncle Vernon had put in had all come down to nothing. It was a personal choice Harry had made, and even though he knew he'd come to regret it, all he wanted to do was poke the Wizarding world in the back and poke it hard.

Before he knew it, Snape had grabbed him by the sleeve and proceeded to pull him out the door, his letter still in his hand.

"Most unfortunate for you, Potter, that I hold little tolerance towards Muggles and I refuse to take no for an answer," Snape muttered shortly. "You _will _go to Hogwarts if it's the last thing I do. We'll be staying in a hotel of my choice for the night, at least until I can convince you Hogwarts is where you belong. I'm sure your relatives won't be missing you."

They ended up staying at a place called the Leaky Cauldron, Snape sleeping on the bed and Harry on the couch, though Harry didn't mind. If anything, it was better than his cupboard. What he was worried about, however, was what Snape would do once Harry refused to go to Hogwarts. After all, the man had stood up to his relatives and lived through the firing of a bullet just for him to go to Hogwarts.

At the same time, the rational side of him not dominated by the bitterness of an abandoned and unloved orphan knew he wanted to learn more about the mystery that surrounded his parents, to know more about this stranger who had scared the Dursleys into nearly wetting themselves, the man who had finally come for him who he only knew as Snape.

Snape had called him powerful and very likely he was. Perhaps entering this new world could mean there was more to it than just dominating the playground – it could mean infinite possibilities, and one of them maybe showing the Dursleys just what they deserved. This could very well mean something, the break he'd always dreamt of.

Exhausted, he fell asleep with a slight smile on his face. For the first time in Harry Potter's life, even if it was just for the purpose of delivering the five hundred and seventy-ninth letter, someone had come for him, someone was bothered enough for his response to see him personally, someone hadn't forgotten him.

Someone thought he was worth five hundred and seventy-ninth letters. Someone cared.

And the thought of it was enough for Harry's bitter little heart to hope.


	3. Chapter the second: destiny part a

Disclaimer: Not mine.

_Chapter the Second_

_Destiny_

_Destiny? You call it destiny and make it sound like a _privilege _while you're at it? __That's not fair, mate. Just. Not. Fair. I'm not obligated to do _anything _for _any _world. I never wanted your fame or fortune. I never asked to be part of this world. Hell, the crazy _Dark Lord _was the one who tried to kill me; all I did was not die. _Screw _destiny. Can't you see that I just don't care?_

_Part a_

By the time Harry slowly began to rouse from his sleep, he had already convinced himself that everything the night before was a dream.

Snape wasn't there. Harry was still in his cupboard, waiting for the sharp rattling sound of Aunt Petunia's bony fingers on his door and for dust and sand to clear the ceiling when Dudley ran down the stairs, demanding his breakfast.

Which reminded Harry. He'd have to make them breakfast.

But when he finally opened his eyes, he realised his surroundings were not at all what he'd imagined. He was lying on the couch he'd dreamt he fell asleep on, except this time, a warm blanket covered his lower half.

Snape was already up, for his bed was empty and Harry vaguely wondered where he'd gone.

It was just then that he recalled the letter from Hogwarts he'd meant to return back to Snape but never quite managed. He'd stuffed it into his pockets when he'd realised Snape wasn't under any circumstances taking it back, and now he took it out again for a second look.

_Dear Mr. Potter,  
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…._

Harry swallowed. The emerald ink looked so beautiful on parchment.

_Accept. You have been accepted…_

"Second thoughts?"

Snape's sudden presence in the room brought Harry out of his reverie and Harry, slightly embarrassed to have been discovered reading the letter again, coughed awkwardly before hurriedly hiding the letter.

"You might as well take it out, Potter," Snape said, unimpressed. "I've seen it already."

Harry scowled.

"You'll need an owl to reply, of course," Snape continued. "Some quills and parchment will be necessary."

Harry stared at Snape in astonishment. "Sir, I've already said. I'm not going."

There was a pause as Snape surveyed Harry with beetle black eyes. "I hope I haven't said anything to suggest otherwise, but if you are going to reply, then surely we need to do so, urgently and _properly_."

Somewhere at the back of his head, something told him Snape wasn't about to let Harry go just so easily…

_-wizardry-_

The entrance to the ever so famous Diagon Alley was through the pub of the Leaky Cauldron, which Harry supposed was harmless enough. For a famous place, it was very dark and shabby. A few old women were sitting in a corner, drinking tiny glasses of sherry. One of them was smoking a long pipe.

As soon as the two of them entered the pub of the Leaky Cauldron, every eye turned to face them. Harry figured it was a common occurrence, what with Snape being the epitome dramatic entrances.

"Morning, Snape," the bartender said in a rather respectful tone. "Would you like something?"

"Not now," Snape replied gruffly. "Later, perhaps."

All was fine as Snape dragged Harry halfway across the pub. But it was when _they_ saw himand consequently gasped as one, that trouble started.

The Leaky Cauldron went completely still and silent.

"Bless my soul," whispered the old bartender, "Harry Potter…what an honor."

_Eh. Now _that _is just creepy._

He hurried out from behind the bar, rushed toward Harry and seized his hand, tears in his eyes.

"Welcome back, Mister Potter, welcome back."

Harry didn't know what to say. Everyone single soul in the room, including the woman who was still puffing on the pipe without realizing it had gone out, was looking at him. Then there was a great scraping of chairs and the next moment, Harry found himself shaking hands with everyone in the Leaky Cauldron, the most enthusiastic being a wizard who had come back for at least three handshakes…

"Delighted, Mister Potter - just can't tell you - Diggle's the name, Dedalus Diggle."

_What a stupid name, and what a crazy bunch of people. Why on Earth would these nutters want to shake _my _hand?_

A pale young man made his way forward, very nervously. One of his eyes was twitching.

"Quirrell!" Snape suddenly barked. "Potter, that's one of the Hogwarts teachers."

"P-P-Potter," stammered Professor Quirrell, grasping Harry's hand, "c-can't t-tell you how p-pleased I am to meet you."

"Huh," Harry muttered almost amusedly, looking at the pathetic man up and down. He must have suffered from an anxiety attack sometime in the recent past, but obviously no one had bothered giving him treatment. "Huh."

"Potter," Snape warned sharply, giving him a nudge.

"Oh, right." Harry shuffled backwards a little, withdrawing his from Quirrell's unnerving clutch. "Well, I _would _say I'm pleased to meet you too, except I'm told I shouldn't lie."

There was a pause as Quirrell processed his words. "I-I-"

"Since you obviously haven't been told," Harry continued, feeling extremely brave and glad of the fact that he wouldn't be going to Hogwarts, therefore whatever he said to this professor would be of no importance, "let me inform you, sir. I have no plans of going to Hogwarts, and quite frankly meeting you is just another reason why I shouldn't. I mean, if teachers like _you _teach at Hogwarts, it really makes me wonder what sort of people are nurturing the future of this world, doesn't it?"

Quirrell could only gape at him in amazement, though Harry was almost certain there was suspicion lurking somewhere behind his nervous front. "What subject do you teach, anyway?"

"D-Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts," answered Quirrell.

_Pathetic. Just so pathetic._

Perhaps more words would have been exchanged, but the others wouldn't let Professor Quirrell keep Harry to himself and Snape didn't seem too pleased about the conversation either. It took almost ten minutes to get away from them all. At last, Snape managed to drag him away from the crowd.

Dedalus Diggle shook Harry's hand one last time before Snape finally led them through the bar and out into a small, walled courtyard, where there was nothing but a trash can and a few weeds.

"Snape…why…?"

_Why do I get the feeling that you could've gotten me out of there a lot quicker than you did, but decided to linger under the delusion that being worshipped will change my mind?_

Snape merely looked amused. "Why did they know your name, Potter? Why are you famous?"

Harry frowned. "I – never mind."

Snape's lip curled. "Don't you wish to know, Potter? About why you are famous?"

Harry shrugged. "It has everything to do with my parents being dead, doesn't it? No one wants to be famous for that." There was a pause before Harry added cheekily, "Besides, it's not like I'll be staying round long enough to care."

Clearly, the answer didn't satisfy Snape, who merely glowered at his reply. Harry couldn't help feeling the satisfaction of knowing he had duped Snape's attempt to sell the magical world. Who did the man think he was, some wide-eyed, easily starstruck country bumpkin on his first visit to the big city?

Then they reached the brick wall.

Snape's wand was out. "Right, stand back, Potter," he muttered.

He tapped the wall three times with the point of his wand, slowly and carefully of course, almost in demonstration.

The brick he had touched quivered - it wriggled - in the middle, a small hole appeared - it grew wider and wider - a second later they were facing a large archway onto a cobbled street that twisted and turned out of sight.

The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons outside the nearest shop. Cauldrons - All Sizes - Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver - Self-Stirring - Collapsible, said a sign hanging over them. A little further, Harry noticed the sign saying Eeylops Owl Emporium - Tawny, Screech, Barn, Brown, and Snowy. Several boys round Harry's age had their noses pressed against a window displaying broomsticks. "Look," Harry heard one of them say, "the new Nimbus Two Thousand - fastest ever -"

There were shops selling robes, shops selling telescopes and strange silver instruments Harry had never seen before, windows stacked with barrels of bat spleens and eels' eyes, tottering piles of spell books, quills, and rolls of parchment, potion bottles, globes of the moon…

For a while, Snape was forgotten and all that existed was Harry and a world waiting to be discovered.

"Welcome, Potter," said Snape, smirking at the stunned look on Harry's face, "to Diagon Alley."

_-wizardry-_

A strange thing happened as Griphook slid off the cart that contained an exhilarated Harry and a slightly bored looking Snape, deep below the structure of Gringotts Bank, took out Harry's key and opened his vault.

Green smoke billowed out and as it cleared, Harry's eyes threatened to pop out of their sockets at the sight of so much money. Inside were mounds of gold coins. Columns of silver. Heaps of little bronze tokens.

"Sweet baby Jesus," he breathed.

"Wizard's money," Snape immediately set about explaining. "Galleons are in gold, sickles in silver and knuts bronze."

"No bank notes?" Harry muttered exasperatedly. "Imagine paying for a house…in Wizarding money…"

Snape snorted, rolling his eyes. "Don't be stupid, Potter," he hissed. "This isn't _Muggle. _We don't use bank notes. If something needs to be paid in large amounts, either a magical contract is signed or bewitched pouches are used to carry the amount more conveniently."

"Which reminds me, Potter," Snape continued, "we'll put all the money in my pouch for now, but you'll need to buy a bewitched trunk of your own. For hiding the quills and parchment from your relatives of course."

He added the last part for Harry's benefit, as Harry shot him another suspicious glance.

"One letter, Snape," Harry gritted. "How much parchment will you need?"

To this, Snape smirked menacingly, evilly, terrifyingly. "Enough to reply _five hundred and seventy-eight letters,_ I should think. After all, Hogwarts sent just as many. It would be considered rude to reply in anything less."

"You've got to be joking!" Harry exclaimed.

"I do not _joke, _Potter, I assure you."

Huh. The sadistic look on Snape's face told him otherwise.

_-wizarding-_

By the time his purchases were transferred into Harry's newly purchased magical trunk (complete with seventeen sections of storage and foot-recognising lock), Snape was dragging him to Eeylop's Owl Emporium.

"Why can't we just use _yours, _mate?" Harry huffed. "I mean, honestly. These are _owls. _As if the Dursleys will allow me to keep one."

Nevertheless, a snowy white owl was bought, and to Snape's enjoyment, Harry loved her.

"You'll need to give her a name, of course," he pointed out once they'd stepped out of the shop. "An _appropriate _name. I suggest you buy book on Wizarding history, or culture. Maybe one on owl maintenance."

Without much further ado, the entourage travelled to Flourish and Blotts.

Harry entered the shop impressed. Shelves were stacked to the ceiling with books, some as large as paving stones bound in leather, others the size of postage stamps in covers of silk, perhaps full of peculiar symbols or with nothing in them at all. Snape smirked when he caught Harry looking at _Curses and Countercurses (Bewitch Your Friends and Befuddle Your Enemies with the Latest Revenges: Hair Loss, Jelly-Legs, Tongue-Tying and Much, Much More)_ by Professor Vindictus Viridian.

"You'll need a wand for any of that sort, Potter."

Harry swallowed his retort and instead bought himself a book Snape recommended. "Standard first year History of Magic knowledge. I say _standard_ but truthfully, I place little hope in the first years retaining any of Binns' drabble about the Goblin Wars except that there _were _Goblin Wars sometime in the past."

Another book, _Looking After Your Owl _by Cassiopeia Antheil, was added to Harry's trunk. Before long, it was midday.

"Most boys would be asking for ice cream by now, Potter," Snape commented wryly.

Harry grinned half-heartedly. "Lead the way."

Florean Fortesue's was amazing. Harry, to prove his point, chose olive-flavored ice cream, the plainest flavor there was. Snape, meanwhile, bought a dream-flavored ice cream dipped in chocolate elixir.

For a moment, Harry wondered if this was what it was like for other boys shopping with their parents.

"Sir," he blurted, inwardly cringing at the curiosity in his voice. "What were they like, my parents?"

Snape stared at him for a long time before he answered.

"Both your parents were Gryffindors. The Hat almost immediately Sorted them. And that's what they were for the rest of their lives: stupid, impulsive – but very brave."

Harry, didn't ask what it meant, instead relishing in the fact that his parents were _Gryffindors._

"Your mother was well-loved, talented…beautiful. She was brilliant at Potions and Charms, ridiculous on a broom, surprisingly the Head of Slytherin's favourite pupil, Prefect her fifth and sixth year, Head Girl in seventh to your father's Head Boy.

"Ah, yes, and that father of yours." Snape's tone drastically changed into a sneer. "Irritating at best, an outright bully most other times. Quidditch captain for his last three years, managed to beat Slytherin to the Quidditch – _and_ House Cup – his entire flying careers."

_Huh. Obviously not the best of friends. A jealous rival, perhaps?_

"After school, they both became Aurors – dark wizard catchers. Their courage, stubbornness and survival instinct made them extremely good at their job."

Snape seemed reluctant to admit this, and even more reluctant to say his next words.

"They died for you, Potter. Your father first, then your mother. The specifics involve a prophecy, a Fidelius charm, too much Gryffindorish trust and a traitor of a best friend. Yes, and the Dark Lord.

"The Dark Lord was the one who killed them. They were dead-set at protecting you, and their sacrifice became your salvation. The Dark Lord could not kill you when he tried, and thus you became the only survivor of the Killing Curse, the fatal spell no other soul has ever managed to survive. To this day, you are known as the Boy-Who-Lived."

Snape's gaze finally turned to meet Harry's, perhaps the first time since he'd first met him, and its intensity didn't make Harry want to shrink away – rather hold it.

"Ultimately it took your parents' deaths for you to live. In the legend of the Boy-Who-Lived, all that was ever mention was how you lived but never how they died. But remember, Potter. Never forget the hundreds, thousands of people who sacrificed their life for the greater good, never forget all those who died before you and how their death brought you the gift of life. Never forget, Potter. Never."

Harry swallowed, finally understanding why the people of Diagon Alley had immediately recognized him – and hailed him.

"What…happened to this Dark Lord in the end?"

Snape rolled his cynical eyes. "What a wonderful question," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm, "his demise is _only _the most commonly asked question of the decade, right after the mystery of how _you_ managed to survive the Killing Curse virtually unharmed."

Harry frowned. "He must be gone for good, even if he's not dead. You're safe then. He can't possibly be coming back."

Snape's eyes flashed. "Take a good look at Wizarding Britain and tell me he is gone, Potter. Forty years ago, his first act of brutality was committed – twenty nine Muggle orphans and three nuns at a Muggle orphanage, found dead by the morning. Thirty years ago, the werewolf population in Great Britain _squared itself _and a mother's worst nightmare was to find her child the next morning a dark creature. Twenty years ago, the Ministry of Magic was utterly ransacked, chaos replacing the order governing the Wizarding World for centuries. Ten years ago, the death of your parents added to the existing tally of five hundred Auror casualties – in the five previous years. He may be gone but his presence will linger, _forever_."

_Huh. Here I __was, __thinking Snape was __just another grumpy git who can't be bothered to fight the fight. Could it be that he's just like me – just another soul whose lost too much in the crossfire?_

"One day, Potter, you'll have to face him again. It was prophesized that the Dark Lord will rise again and that you will be destined to save our world. When the time comes, it'll be you and him, man to man, wizard to wizard, power on power. You cannot avoid your fate, Potter, and if I must say, it is your destiny."

Harry stared. _What? I can't – You have _got _to be kidding me._ "Please tell me you're joking."

Snape rolled his eyes, face contorted into an impatient grimace. "I thought we'd already established the fact that I don't 'joke', Potter. Let me reiterate: you are the most famous boy in Wizarding Britain. The Dark Lord's presence still lingers in Britain, and if I may say with reluctance, _it is your destiny to become a hero. _You _belong _in our world."

_Destiny? You call it destiny and make it sound like a _privilege _while you're at it? __That's not fair, mate. Just. Not. Fair. I'm not obligated to do _anything _for _any _world. I never wanted fame or fortune. I never asked to be part of this world. Hell, the crazy _Dark Lord _was the one who tried to kill me; all I did was not die. _Screw _destiny. Can't you see that I just don't care?_

"What I don't get, Snape, is what _I'll_ be getting out of this education," Harry said quietly. "Your – sorry, _our _world has ignored me since I was a child, then out of the blue I get a letter expecting me to enter into its welcoming arms like a lost child.

"What I want to know is _why? _Why shouldn't I ignore the world that's ignored me for so long? You say I belong in it? Then what the hell am I doing with the Dursleys? I was forgotten and unwanted, left on the doorstep with no one who cared enough to love me. Why didn't I know about magic until now? Why the hell should I even be here, talking to you, mate? I don't owe anyone anything.

"And now you're telling me I'm supposed to do something as stupid as _saving your world? _Excuse me, but I'm just a kid. Hogwarts is just an education. Until yesterday, had anyone bowed to me and called me the Boy-Who-Lived, I probably would have run away. What's stopping me now? What makes me, in any way, obligated to help you people?

"In the memory of my parents? Your world killed them. Because I'm a _wizard? _Then I'll stop becoming one – I'll never use magic again, I'll swear it. Because of my scar, because I'm the Boy-Who-Lived and I supposedly defeated the Dark Lord, Mr He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Screw hyphens, I'm done with this crap. And you can just shove it all back in your mouth, because I never wanted any of it."

It was here that Severus Snape finally realised something crucial, the pivotal point in which his perception of Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, changed.

Even at eleven, fame wasn't enough of a temptation for Harry Potter to want magic.

Around this time, Snape had just about given up. Harry Potter wasn't arrogant, or stupid, at times even the least bit _Gryffindorish. _No, there wasn't anything remotely easy about him. In fact, what frightened Snape the most was that this Potter _made sense. _

So when Harry Potter finished his ice cream and stood up to leave, Severus Snape let him.

Perhaps all would have gone well, had destiny not decided otherwise.

Harry Potter was leaving the Wizarding world for good, in the name of bitterness and vengeance, no matter how much he secretly craved for his salvation.

Fate, unfortunately, intervened.


	4. Chapter the second: destiny part b

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Chapter the Second

Destiny

Part two

_Destiny, Snape. You call it destiny? All I ever wanted to do was live. Is it so hard? Is it just so wrong of me to want a day, years later when I'm on my deathbed surrounded by people who love me, and being able to say in full confidence that my life was worth living for?_

_-wizardry-_

For Harry, it wasn't a question of morality. He just wanted to know why a crowd of a hundred witches and wizards, most probably armed with a wand, was doing nothing except observe the conflict that occurred before their very eyes.

It was obvious – a goblin was being attacked by a wizard and no one was prepared to do anything but watch.

The situation began as soon as Snape had mentally prepared himself for the disappointed look on Dumbledore's face when he inevitably returned to his fortress empty-handed. Unfortunately for him, Harry was focussed on something else.

A darkly cloaked figure trudged slowly but purposefully towards the entrance of Gringotts bank, incidentally in front of Florean Fortescue's.

The robbing of Gringotts Bank, supposedly the safest, most secure place in Great Britain, possibly the world, was taking place before Harry, Snape and many other witches and wizards' very eyes, but for some reason, only Harry saw it.

Why? It was a question whose answer many would deem incredible insight, a blatant display of powerful potential, and as one man would call it, destiny.

What was it about this figure that made Harry suspicious?

_His hands are hidden – he could be holding anything, and it's obvious his right hand is. It's bent at the elbow, too stiff, like he's holding a weapon, ready to brandish it if - _when_ – the time comes. He could be holding a gun, or maybe a knife, but since he's a wizard…it must be his wand._

_He's wearing a hooded cloak – smart, covering every aspect of him yet fitting in with the strangely dressed people here. If Snape's hood was down, the two of them would be identical. Except they aren't and this is _Snape _we're talking about…if even _he_ doesn't wear a hood…_

By now, Snape was staring at Harry strangely, trying to figure out why he had ceased licking his cone. Harry hastily ran his tongue along the rim, temporarily appeasing him, mind still far away. The more he thought about it, the more he saw it as strange.

_Something about that hood isn't right. It's too bulky; does the wearer have a large head, or is he wearing something else underneath that?_

He thought back vaguely to the stuttering professor he'd met earlier. Quirrell, though _Quiver _suited him better. Perhaps it was Quirrell himself, but then again, turbans could be popular headdresses in the world and Harry's brief sightseeing of Diagon Alley did not help him discern whether or not this was true.

_Yes, it could be anyone wearing a turban, hat or helmet underneath. And they wouldn't be doing that unless whoever the culprit is wasn't wearing the cloak to begin with and only put it on…specifically for the purpose of doing whatever he is?_

"Potter," Harry vaguely heard Snape mutter irritably in the background.

By now, the figure had ascended the white marble steps, bowing his way past the goblin guard and entering. Harry briefly saw the man pause at the second set of doors, obviously reading the inscriptions of heed carved on the silver door.

'_Enter, stranger, but take heed/of what awaits the sin of greed…' You'd have to be either crazy, extremely powerful or the most desperate man in the world to attempt robbery at the most secure place in Britain._

Harry licked his ice cream.

_Or, you know, the man could just be visiting his vault._

But there was something about the way the man held himself, unsure, yet very sure, something about his image that burnt itself well into the very recesses of Harry's mind that made him drop his half-finished ice-cream and run.

"Potter!" Snape's thundering voice was but a fluttering wind.

Harry sprinted up the stairs, glad Dudley's habit of Harry-hunting finally had its uses. Without hesitation, he pushed open the second set of gates with the indented warning, eyes shooting straight for a glimpse of the shady character…

"_Potter," _came Snape's exasperated voice, not far behind him. "Care to explain to me _what _you are doing?"

"Sorry, mate," Harry muttered, pacing his way through the throng of busy people inside the hall. "I'll explain after- hey, you there! Stop!"

In the end, the shady cloak was quick to find and even easier to trace, once Harry had figured out its owner's pattern of zigzagging through the crowd. At the last instant, Harry suddenly lurched forward and just as he was about to grab hold of the thief's hood, the man's wand whipped out and almost instantaneously sent a dangerously red beam of light aimed at Harry.

_Jesus. They're like bullets… _At the last possible instant, Harry ducked, instead letting the stream of light hit the unsuspecting Snape who was right behind him.

_Oh God, he's either dead or out cold._ Snape's figure fell onto the cold marble floor with a thunk, surprising the general population of the room. A little girl nearby shrieked.

Harry, meanwhile, was subject to another bout of deadly light. He ducked past the first two, but when the next three were aimed lower, he had no choice but to attempt what he'd often done with Dudley and the others – summon up a brick wall.

_Come on, wall, wall, block my enemy's blows…_A wall didn't exactly appear, but whatever did suddenly deflected the curses like an invisible shield.

By now, the crowd had parted, giving Harry room to duck and move. No one bothered helping him.

"What in the name of Merlin's green underwear is going on?" someone shouted.

_Good question. Something I'd like to know too._

The ongoing bout of defence and offence was intercepted by the sudden arrival of goblins, pushing back the gathering crowd and causing the offender to pause in his attack.

"Wicked wizard," an important-looking goblin spat, stepping between Harry and the unknown figure. "Show yourself!"

Perhaps the thief was crazy, thirsting after gold so much that even in front of an entire crowd of witches, wizards and goblins, he still attempted to attack. It was near impossible for him to escape, and perhaps it would have been easier to simply relinquish himself to the authority. But the man had far more in plan for himself than a lifetime in prison.

"_Avada Kedavra!" _He hissed, sending a terrifying green beam at the goblin who had spoken.

Ultimately, it wasn't a question of morality. It was one of instinct. The instinct of every individual – perhaps a hundred wizards and witches and half has many goblins - who watched a goblin being silenced was to do nothing but simply stare. To her credit, the little girl who had screeched at Snape's fall screamed as the spell was released too.

Harry Potter panicked.

It wasn't within his instinct to do the same as the others. There was something, something about the words uttered, the way they were enunciated and how the jet of green just sliced through the air, precise, terrible and beautiful, _so beautiful, _that made Harry realise - the curse could _not, should _not, reach the goblin.

So naturally he stepped in front of it.

_-wizardry-_

Harry Potter wasn't stupid. Nor was he particularly brave or honourable. He hadn't stepped in front of the green light because he stupidly believed himself to be invincible. He just didn't want the goblin to get shot. That, and the fact that he wasn't exactly aware it had been the Killing Curse of all spells he'd stepped in front of, or that his conjured invisible wall wouldn't be able to block it.

The light flew at him, smashing through his wall at such a force, it pushed away what little dust had gathered on the floor, hitting the centre of his chest with precision before, surprisingly, rebounding off Harry and shot back to its sender. Watching the offender fall to the floor, he absentmindedly rubbed his chest, wondering if it had been the man's intention to commit suicide.

"Holy Merlin," someone in the audience breathed.

Suddenly, a dark mist emitted from the body, scaring the audience even further. It was only curiosity that stopped them from running away. The mist slowly rose and assembled into the shape of a…head?

_Huh. That is one ugly face. _Yes, it was head, but only just. Harry could identify the eyes, slits that seemed to glare into his very soul, and a mouth pulled back into a snarl. Its very appearance instilled within the audience absolute terror and fear. Gasps resounded around the room, yet still no one bothered taking any action against the abomination.

"_Yoouuuu…darrrreee…Potttterrr…" _he hissed.

For a minute, it almost seemed as if the mist-creature was too tired to say more, for its silhouette gleamed, in and out of focus, before finally being banished by a wizard who had emerged from the crowd with his wand drawn.

His last words would never be lost on Harry.

"_Vengeaaancccee…wiiill…beeee…minneeee…"_

There was silence in the hall of Gringotts. Deafening silence. Then, the wizard who had stepped forward turned to the body of the thief, surveying the damage.

The hood was pulled off, revealing the charred remains of Professor Quirrell, complete with his purple turban.

_Sweet baby Jesus. What sort of criminals do they employ at Hogwarts?_

"He was possessed," the wizard finally announced. He was well-dressed, long red hair tied back in a pony tail, and one his ears was pierced with something dangerous and deadly – but fashionable. "It seems the You-Know-Who has been living off his life force as a second head for weeks now, maybe even months. Anyone know who he is?"

"Professor Quirrell," Harry suddenly piped up. "Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, though he obviously didn't do a very good job of it. Kind of makes you wonder what sort of qualifications it takes to teach there, doesn't it?"

Suddenly, every eye turned to him. Following the recovery of shock, they seemed to remember that it was he who had slain the man.

The girl who had screamed had been eyeing him intensely and when he turned to glare at her, she suddenly burst out, "HOLY MERLIN, YOU'RE THE BOY-WHO-LIVED!"

Harry groaned. _No. Seriously? Was that necessary? _

Not too surprisingly, pandemonium erupted.

The wizard who had been inspecting the corpse suddenly whipped his ponytail round, staring at Harry in disbelief. "So the legend's true," he said, incredulous.

It was all he managed to say before Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived was mobbed the second time in five hours...by about a hundred or so wizards. And goblins.

_-wizardry-_

"I know you disliked him, Potter," Snape said exasperatedly, "but did you _have_ to kill the only Defence professor Hogwarts had, before he even started teaching? How on Earth are we meant to fill the spot in now?"

_Jesus, Snape. You make me wonder how you've managed to survive so many years without being cursed to death. _

It was with irritation that Harry finally hoisted himself off the couch in their rented room at the Leaky Cauldron. He had lied there for what felt like and possibly could have been hours whilst Snape had left to take care of Other Important Matters. It was far from peaceful, for nearly every minute, the window was bombarded with the appearance of persistent owls, each carrying parcels and letters addressed to him. So far, Harry had only let in one – Snape's subscription of _The Daily Prophet, _though he came to regret the decision – for the first twenty pages was filled with nearly every single article printed in relation to him.

He glared."Are you happy now? You were right all along. I faced him again, didn't I? Just like you said I would. Go on, rub it in my face."

Snape sneered at him, almost in amusement. "What in Salazar's name made you step in front of the _Killing Curse _of all things magical_? _Do you _like _being brave and stupid? Is it secretly your life's goal to face the Dark Lord empty-handed? Does it thrill you to know that you are, in the end, every bit as _Gryffindor _as your ever so noble parents?"

For an instance in his life, Harry Potter paused, slightly confused.

_Why? Why do you scold me like a parent? Why can't you treat me like a hero? Go on – I'm powerful. I've killed. And I've saved you all from the Dark Lord's return. Why don't you thank me, or rub my destiny in my face? Why aren't you like the rest of them?_

"It was destiny, wasn't it?" Harry snapped. "I faced him off. I won. Technically, the prophecy came true."

"Wrong, Potter," Snape said. "That wasn't destiny. That was _fate_. The Dark Lord was as weak as a ghost and you…merely a child who has yet to learn how to hold a wand. All you did was survive a Killing Curse. The specifics of the prophecy include you actually _killing _the Dark Lord."

Harry narrowed his eyes, something he'd picked up from Snape. "Oh yeah? And what if I don't want to?"

"Then it'll be him killing you."

_You're like the ultimate bearer of bad news, Snape. Nothing you say or do is ever cheerful. It's like the whole world owes you or something. _"But you said it was my _destiny-_"

"-To _face_ him. When the time comes, it'll be a contention of _skill_ to see if you can truly beat him."

_You have _got _to be kidding me._

Harry glared. "I beat him twice. Chances are I'll beat him again."

"Don't flatter yourself," Snape hissed. "Do you truly believe it was the cause of _ability _that left you untouched? No, it wasn't you. It was your mother's magic, her protection that runs through your veins, which made you immune to the curse. She died in your stead, Potter, and it is because of _her _that the Killing Curse deflected."

"Frankly, Potter," Snape continued before more could be said, "you need an education." Reaching into his robes, he drew out an ever so famous envelope, addressed in emerald ink to _Mr H J Potter_, the Hogwarts seal no doubt stamped on the other side. Letter five-hundred and eighty.

"I see _The Daily Prophet, special edition _as arrived," he mused, waking the dozing owl with a spell Harry made sure to remember (_enervate)_, before paying the bird and sending it off. He passed the paper to Harry.

"Page one – _Boy-Who-Lived Lives Again – saves Gringotts from returning Dark Lord. _Page three – _Gringotts goblins propose treaty. _Page five – _Hogwarts – Potter questions education standards. _Pages seven to nine – _The History behind the Boy-Who-Lived and You-Know-Who. _Page ten – _The Lightning Scar – legends and facts. _

"Can you see, Potter?" Snape said softly. "It cannot be helped. You have sparked the legend and done so with several witnesses who will one day boast of what they saw to their grandchildren. Aiding the goblins also engineered a political alliance on your part. The goblins have long hated wizards, and the feeling is rather mutual. It was an important goblin you defended, and against your own kind no less. The creatures are in your debt, you have proved that the Dark Lord is yet to be vanquished, that you are, in fact, the hero to his villain these people need, and that it _is your destiny _to face him. As long as your legend lives on, as long as the Wizarding world cannot forget you, you will never turn your back on this world."

_Destiny, Snape. You call it destiny? All I ever wanted to do was live. Is it so hard? Is it just so wrong of me to want to want a day, years later when I'm on my deathbed surrounded by people who love me, and being able to say in full confidence that my life was worth living for?_

"So I'm _destined _to go to Hogwarts," Harry said gently, unable to keep an edge of sarcasm from his tone.

"_So, _when the time comes, you're destined to save the Wizarding world again.

"Your destiny, Potter," Snape continued, "is unavoidable. You are _destined_ to walk this path and no matter how much the idea of going to Hogwarts appals you, it will be your only path to emancipation and you _- will – _seek it_."_

_Snape, you patriot. Fine. I'll go. But by no means is this over. If the lot of you are so utterly desperate to have me there, what makes you think I won't take advantage of the fact that there is no way anyone can expel me after all it took just to get me there?_

"Fine," Harry answered coldly. "Fine. I'll go to Hogwarts. But let me tell you now – _I_, Harry James Potter, _the Boy-Who-Lived, _will be going to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I was invited on the brink of desperation and accepted with utter reluctance. We go there and we'll be playing with _my _rules. Don't forget. I can abuse my status as a hero all I want and there's nothing anyone can do to stop me. As long as I want, from this step onwards, Hogwarts could be a _living hell_."

-_wizardry-_

"Hello," the pale boy with the pointed features opposite him said, "Hogwarts, too?"

"Of course," Harry answered, wondering if this boy was intellectually stunted. The Hogwarts emblem was, after all, hanging on his robe. He tugged his hat down slightly, just in case, though he doubted such a self-absorbed looking boy would notice if he had an extra arm much less a scar on his forehead. "Where else?"

"My father's next door buying my books and Mother's up the street looking at wands," the boy drawled, looking utterly bored. "Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow."

"Most first years probably won't even know _how _to fly brooms yet," he muttered bitterly. "It's sort of logical to have them banned, I guess."

The boy sneered slightly in a way that strongly reminded Harry of Snape. "Have you got your own broom?"

"No."

"Play Quidditch at all?"

"My dad did," Harry piped up excitedly, recalling Snape's long rant. _'Ah, yes, that father of yours. Irritating at best, an outright bully at worst. Quidditch captain during his last three years, managed to beat Slytherin to the Quidditch – _and _House Cup – his entire flying career.' _"He was Quidditch captain of his house from fifth to seventh year, and they won the Quidditch Cup every year he played."

If anything, this seemed to impress the boy. "So was _my_ father! He says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you'll be in yet?"

'_Both your parents were Gryffindors. The Hat almost immediately Sorted them. And that's what they were for the rest of their lives: stupid, impulsive – but very brave.'_

"Doesn't a hat tell you where you go?" Harry replied, frowning a little.

"Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been - imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"

"Well, _someone _has to go to that house," Harry reasoned, feeling slightly sorry for them. "If I had a choice, it'd be Gryffindor. That's where both my parents went."

At these words, the boy stared. "Gryffindor?" he echoed in disbelief. "You don't seem very Gryffindor to me."

Harry frowned. "Can't you tell? I'm brave, impulsive, and stupid."

"No," his companion mused. "You just didn't cringe when I said I wanted to be in Slytherin."

Harry shrugged, understanding from the way Snape spoke of all things Gryffindor that there seemed to be a rift between the two Houses.

"I know Gryffindors and Slytherins tend to hate each other, but I like to think of it this way – a thousand years ago, the two founders were probably friends – best friends even."

This seemed to impress the boy greatly. "Oh, really?"

"They _did _end up building a school together."

The boy thought about these words for a moment. "Good point. I suppose you're alright, for someone who wants to be in Gryffindor. At least your parents were our kind, right?"

Harry rolled his eyes, a little fed up at the way the boy were speaking of his parents. At least? Lily and James Potter couldn't have been _bad _parents. Just, according to Snape, stupid, impulsive but very brave ones. "How can they be Gryffindors and _not _our kind?"

"I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you?" The boy continued. "They're just not the same; they've never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine. I think they should keep it in the old Wizarding families."

Harry nodded. How many other children like his mother were cast out by their relatives for having magic? Had his parents still been alive, they wouldn't have let him come into contact with people like the Dursleys.

"They should only allow those who _deserve _magic into Hogwarts," he said coldly, "not just anyone showing the slightest signs of power. People who respect this world, people who should belong here by _right _since birth."

_People like me. Why? Why did they send me away when it was obvious I was one of them? What do I have to gain in living with the Dursleys? I've lived through ten years of neglect and malnourishment – Don't I deserve something better than the same treatment any other witch or wizard from non-magical families get?_

_Those people, the Muggles, they burnt and tortured my kind and blamed their dysfunctional societies on witchcraft, hardly any worse than the Dursleys' treatment of me…God forbid if Dudley got the letter instead of me…no, the Dursleys wouldn't hate him for it – they'd be over the moon, worshiping him. _

"After all, _we _wouldn't ever abuse our power. _They _treat it either like it's a slave or a joke. They'd never understand it the way we do."

_Oh yes, if it was Dudley the one who went to Hogwarts and not me, just imagine the new sort of terror I'd have to endure every summer. He'd never hesitate to abuse his magic, not like me. _

At his words, the boy seemed extremely pleased. "What's your surname, by the way?"

But before Harry could answer, Madam Malkin said, "That's you done, my dear," and Harry hopped down from the footstool.

"I'll see you at Hogwarts then," said the drawling boy. "Try finding me. It's been interesting talking to you."

_Just you wait, Dudley Dursley. One day, I'm going to show you just how great I am, and more people will love me than they'd ever, ever love you._

_-wizardry-_

Narrow and shabby with peeling gold letters over the door reading _Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C_. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.

A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single, spindly chair which Snape sat on to wait. Harry stared at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back of his neck prickled. The very dust and silence in here seemed to tingle with secret magic.

"Good afternoon," said a soft voice. Harry turned. An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop. The man was feeble and withered, yet not for a moment could Harry imagine him dying at all. He was god-like, omniscient, making Harry think of a puppetmaster who knew how to play his characters and play them well.

Snape coughed, and as Harry broke out of his reverie, he said, "Hi."

"Ah yes," the man muttered amusedly, not attempting to move from his stance. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter." It wasn't a question. "You have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work."

Harry was tempted to tell the man to blink. Those silvery eyes were a bit creepy.

"Your father, on the other hand, favoured a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favoured it - it's really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course."

_Christ__, and I thought Didalus Diddle had the stalker vibe bad…_

Ollivander had come so close that he and Harry were almost nose to nose. Harry could see himself reflected in those misty eyes.

"And that's where…"

Ollivander's eyes moved to Harry's forehead, where the scar inevitably lay, hidden from curious eyes by the hat Snape had made him, wear.

"I'm sorry to say I sold the wand that did it," he said softly. "Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands…well, if I'd known what that wand was going out into the world to do…"

He shook his head and then moved on Snape.

"Severus! Severus Snape! How nice to see you again…Willow, fourteen inches, sharp and aggressive, isn't it?"

_You know, the fact that you're naming a wizard's most precious possession by measurement and personality just makes it seriously wrong._

"Of course," Snape replied smoothly, ignoring Harry's naughty grin.

"Well, now - Mr. Potter. Let me see." He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. "Which is your wand arm?"

_You tell me. I haven't exactly used a wand before, have I?_

"I'm right-handed," said Harry.

"Hold out your arm. That's it." He measured Harry from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round his head. "Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand."

Ollivander flitted around the shelves, occasionally taking down boxes.

"That will do," he said, and the tape measure, busy measuring Harry's nostrils, crumpled into a heap on the floor. "Right then, Mr. Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave."

Harry took the wand and pointed it at its box in a way he'd seen Snape do, but Ollivander snatched it out of his hand almost at once.

"Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try -"

Harry tried - but he had hardly raised the wand when it, too, was snatched back by the wandmaker.

"No, no -here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, try it out."

He tried. And tried. The pile of tried wands was mounting higher and higher on the spindly chair, but the more wands Ollivander pulled from the shelves, the happier he seemed to become.

_Jeez, you paedophile. What are you waiting for, a bleeding miracle?_

"Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere – I wonder, now - yes, why not - unusual combination -holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."

Harry gripped hold of the wand, feeling a sudden warmth in his fingers. He raised the wand above his head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light on to the walls. Snape coughed something that sounded remarkably like "finally" and Ollivander cried, "Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well…how curious…how very curious…"

He put Harry's wand back into its box and wrapped it in brown paper, still muttering, "Curious…curious…"

"I'm many things, sir," Harry said patiently. "Just not a mind-reader. You'll have to explain whatever you mean to say."

Ollivander fixed Harry with his pale stare.

"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather - just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother why, its brother gave you that scar."

Harry raised an eyebrow, vaguely aware of the fact that Snape too had heard.

_I think I really, really hate destiny._

"Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember… I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter… After all, He-Who- Must-Not-Be-Named did great things - terrible, yes, but great."

The two exited the shop in slight haste. The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky as Harry and Snape made their way back down Diagon Alley, back through the wall, back through the Leaky Cauldron, now empty. The two emptied their rented room, before making their way out of the Wizarding community and following the route home.

Had Harry paid attention, he would have noticed others staring strangely at the two of them, the same serious, slightly scowling and pensive expression present on both of their faces and their similar complexions making most passers-by assume they were a formidable match of father and son.

But all Harry could think about was his newly-purchased wand and the bond it shared with his destined rival's. In the years to come, his similarity with his opponent would haunt him, time and again, but at the brief age of eleven all he could do was inwardly smirk. Reaching into his pockets, he fingered his newly purchased wand, feeling a gush of triumph at finally owning something Dudley Dursley would never, ever possess.

It didn't matter to Harry that the Statute of Secrecy and underage magic laws prohibited his use of magic – the fact that he was finally one-up from the Dursleys could only give him the hope he needed to keep on fighting.

_Just you watch, world. Dudley, Petunia, Vernon, Hogwarts…I'll show you why it's never smart to mess with Harry Potter. Just you watch._

_-wizardry-_

August the thirty-first. The day before Hogwarts opened once again for its students and teachers. Severus Snape, however, was drunk.

His mind was not at all bothered by the fact that he was currently leaning against the gravestone of his childhood nemesis, love rival and on the battlefield, opponents to the death, nor the fact that in his hastiness to exit his house, he had slipped on a pink robe (one of Dumbledore's jokes), defying logic and somehow drunkenly mistaking it for black.

"It's been ten years, Potter," he muttered, glaring at the gravestone with utter irritation. "Ten years. Been waiting for you to come back and haunt me. Swing me up in the Great Hall by my ankles. Call me Snivellus again, why don't you? Go on. You've always said it. You've always hated me. Why not just one more time?"

The particular kind of emotion Snape was feeling now had very little to do with the satisfaction he had once vowed to feel, fifteen years ago. No, for once in his life, Snape wished things had been different. The rivalry between him and Potter had been on the basis of a lot of misunderstanding, prejudice, and two boys liking the same girl. As men however, Snape would never know what they'd have become.

"I hate you Potter," he spat, glaring at the stone. "I hate you. It's been ten years and I still hate everything about you. I hate the way you taunted us Slytherins. I hate how you just always thought you were so _right _about everything, from the way you pranced around on that stupid broomstick with that stupid snitch to the things you used to tell your friends about me. I was Snivellus, eh? Greasy, ugly, long-nosed, head filled with Dark Magic.

"I hate you for being the one who had it easy. Order of the Phoenix? Gryffindor, Head Boy, a Potter...It was all a given. I hate how I never got the chance to choose…from the instant we were Sorted, the world saw you as the prince of Gryffindor and me as the hated Slytherin.

"I hate the way you fought him and escaped, again and again and again. Do you have any idea…how much I wished I had the same luck? How many times I dreamt of doing what you did, escaping from _him, _from the mess I'd tangled myself into? I hate it…how you had everyone behind you, and I had no one. I hate how you had to place your stupid Gryffindor trust in someone who was never worth it and when it really mattered, you just had to get yourself killed.

"But you know what, Potter? I hate you for dying. Why? Three times you managed to escape him. You'd think you'd get the hang of it by the forth but _no. _You just had to die and leave the rest of us feeling the guilt. You just had to die before I could give you back what I owe, didn't you? Like seeing me in a life debt to you, eh? You just had to die in honour, didn't you?"

"I hate you, Potter. I hate you because it's _your _name on this gravestone, not mine. You died. They remember you for it. I live, yet my survival is hardly the cause for celebration. I live bearing the guilt of knowing it was I who told him to come for you. See what I mean, Potter? You always know how to guilt trip people. I could tell your son right now that at eleven, you were the cruellest boy I'd ever met and you know what? It's the truth. You wouldn't even be able to stop me, but _I_ would."

"Do you even _care _what tomorrow is? Tomorrow's the day your son comes to Hogwarts. Tomorrow it all begins, the moulding of a legend. Only Merlin will know where we will end up. Destiny preserve the next seven years.

"Pity for you, you won't get to see him off. You'll never know which house he ends up in. Personally, after his little display at Gringotts, I'm praying for Gryffindor. The boy's a force to be reckoned with. Merlin forbid he turns up in _my _house."

Snape paused, gulping down more Firewhiskey before snorting. "Can you believe it? Dumbledore worries the _house'll_ be a bad influence on _him_. The boy was _this _close to not coming to Hogwarts; managed to convince _me _it was better that way. The Dark Lord should be more worried with his house being converted to an alliance with _Harry Potter _at the rate that boy's going."

He shivered, terrified with the idea of a Slytherin Boy-Who-Lived. The move could go two ways – the road Snape knew Dumbledore secretly feared, Harry Potter defeating Voldemort only to be the next Dark Lord. There was no way that was going to happen. Sure, the boy had plenty of reason to hate, but saving the goblins and Gringotts was something a boy filled with hate and vengeance would not have done. Snape was secretly hoping this side of him would push the boy towards Gryffindor.

Then there was the other road. Potter could always accomplish the impossible (something he was pretty good at even as an infant) and change the face of Slytherin for good.

"He needs someone," Snape muttered, swallowing another mouthful of Firewhiskey. "Merlin give me strength. Who knows what the next seven years'll be like for him, when he's got no father?"

Harry Potter deserved, at the very least, to know what his father had truly been like, even if he was the biggest bully and the most arrogant Quidditch-playing git out there, even if he had unworthily married Lily Evans, the girl of Snape's dreams, even if _he'd _been the one who had murdered over a dozen of innocent bystanders with just a single spell. Even if Harry Potter hated him, he at least deserved to have _met _him.

"Merlin, Potter," he breathed. "I hated you but you weren't supposed to _die._"

And with that, Severus Snape began to cry.

"Come back…come back, you stupid, arrogant toe-rag. Just…come…back…"

It was September the first, early in the cloudless morning, and things between Severus Snape and James Potter had finally come to an end. They still hated each other, beyond the classroom and definitely beyond the grave. It would go without say that the next time the two met again, in the afterlife and next reincarnation, they would still be mortal enemies. One a north pole the other a south, two very different men with very different hearts, opposite yet alike, never able to find balance.

Something, however, was settled. The mutual dislike had turned into a bond of hatred that made the two close, closer than friend and brother, for only the other saw the faults of his nemesis in pure light, for all that it stood for and salvaged.

But as Severus stood up to leave, the half-filled (or in Snape's case half-emptied) bottle of Firewhiskey balanced at the head of the grave, something peculiar, something unthinkable happened, the instant Snape turned his head away.

Snape had unknowingly performed half of a ritual, something magical that lay at a three-way point between necromancy, Dark Magic and Blood Magic. He, the sworn enemy of James Potter, had unknowingly yet willingly wept, chanted and made an offering at the Potter's gravestone.

In the next few years, he would have no idea how dire his consequences would prove to be.

_-wizardry-_

Notes:

The first half involved what became of Quirrell's attempt at robbing Gringotts, had Harry spotted him and suspected anything. I came up with the id

ea of Harry surviving the Killing Curse again when I realised three things as I started to write this chapter:

First that Harry needed a bout of Destiny to finally convince him Hogwarts and the wizarding world was where he belonged. Judging by his unwillingness at the end of Chapter 2, it had to be something rather phenomenal, something worthy of _Fate interfering. _

Second, I really didn't want Quirrell to hang around. In order for Harry to go to Hogwarts, Quirrell had to go. In him, Harry saw incompetence and weakness, something Snape sees in Neville's Potions lessons. To convince him Hogwarts isn't completely for losers, Quirrell really, really had to go.

And third, the Harry I have created is extremely bitter and has plenty of reason to hate. I really needed you to know that our hero is still susceptible to compassion and mercy. So then I combined the three and – _voila! _Hope you enjoyed reading that part as much as it frustrated me figuring out how to write it.

So it's a general consensus that Draco Malfoy, and/or Hermione Granger needs to be Harry's friends. Draco's someone Harry actually looks slightly down upon at first – I think there's a lack of trust there. They're both Slytherins with too much self-preservation to befriend the other as completely and willingly. But over the years, their friendship will probably strengthen. As for Hermione, I haven't decided yet. Draco in the first book was annoying, but to me, Hermione was about ten times worse. This will be explained more in the next chapter, but trust me, unless I am completely convinced befriending Hermione is a yes, it'll be an _extremely _gradual process as of now.

By the way, the little girl was Ginny Weasley and the wizard who banished Voldemort and inspected Quirrell was Bill.

**A question – Ron Weasley: to antagonise or not to antagonise? Do people want to see a distant, realistic Ron or just major Weasley bashing?**

Also, I realise that it's way too early but I like to plan ahead and form plots long before I write them. **Who do you reckon I should pair Harry up with – boy/girl, canon/OC?** Any suggestion (and why please) is fine by me, though I'm personally hoping it's not Hermione or Ginny people root for. I've set up a poll for it on my profile page - vote for who you want!

Btw, the prologue has been edited. I'd appreciate anyone bothering to read it again, and yes, it is majorly different, with a whole section dedicated to the first time James and Lily managed to elude Voldemort.

Hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as it agonised me writing it!

MaskWithATruth


	5. Chapter the third: the inevitable

Disclaimer: Not mine. Except, perhaps, on the first of April.

**Edited as of 1 Nov 2010. +721 words, an extra scene involving frantic Gryffindors.**

Don't forget to vote in my poll for who you want Harry to be paired with in the future!

_Chapter the Third_

_The Inevitable_

"_We are rootless, drifting people. How can we say we belong to this world when for the last ten, we've belonged to another? We have been living a lie, Hermione. A big, stupid lie. And you know what? No one cared. No one bothered. They just watched it happen without doing anything to help us."_

_-wizardry-_

It was a slightly emotionless Harry who walked himself out of the Dursleys' car, dragging his trunk and Hedwig's cage pathetically as he watched the ecstatic faces of the Dursleys driving off into the sunset.

Alone. He was utterly alone, on a day where his parents should have been there to see him off. The familiar feeling of dread and isolation filled him again as he stood, awkwardly, wishing for a sign to appear and guide him to Hogwarts.

Where on Earth was Platform Nine and Three Quarters?

According to the large clock over the arrivals board, he had ten minutes left to get on the train to Hogwarts and he had no idea how to do it; he was stranded in the middle of a station with a trunk he could hardly lift, a pocket full of wizard money, and a large owl.

Snape must have assumed he wasn't '_as dunderheaded as the rest of those ignoramus first years' _and therefore hadn't told him. For an instant, Harry felt a bitter sense of disappointment and shame flood through him.

At that moment a group of people passed just behind him and he caught a few words of what they were saying.

"- packed with Muggles, of course -"

_Muggles, Snape's favourite word! _Harry swung round. The speaker was a plump woman who was talking to four boys, all with flaming red hair. Each of them was pushing a trunk like Harry's in front of him - and they had an owl.

Heart hammering, Harry pushed his cart after them. They stopped and so did he, just near enough to hear what they were saying.

"Now, what's the platform number?" said the mother.

For a second, Harry almost snorted. _She must be extremely dense not to remember where to go, especially with so many kids who obviously aren't first years._

Before long, the oldest boy of the brood marched toward platforms nine and ten.  
Harry watched, careful not to blink in case he missed it - but just as the boy reached the dividing barrier between the two platforms, a large crowd of tourists came swarming in front of him and by the time the last backpack had cleared away, the boy had vanished.

"Fred, you next," the plump woman said.

"I'm not Fred, I'm George," said the boy. "Honestly, woman, you call yourself our mother? Can't you tell I'm George?"

"Sorry, George, dear."

"Only joking, I am Fred." Fred winked mischievously before taking off.

This time, Harry couldn't help but snort. _Oldest trick in the book._

The woman must have heard, for she suddenly turned to him as Fred's twin George left.

"Hello, dear," she said after a moment's scrutiny. "First time at Hogwarts? Ron's new, too."

She pointed at the last and youngest of her sons. Harry gave him a speculative inspection from head to toe, similar to the one he'd given Quirrell. Ron proved to be tall, thin, and gangling, with freckles, big hands and feet, a long nose and a smudged face.

"Yes," said Harry after a moment's pause, silently admonishing his need to openly mock the boy with the fact that he had no idea how he was meant to get to Hogwarts and these people seemed to be the only ones around to help. "Sorry for the inconvenience, but my…guardian has forgotten to tell me how I'm supposed to get onto the platform."

"Not to worry," she said kindly. "All you have to do is walk straight at the barrier between platforms nine and ten. Don't stop and don't be scared you'll crash into it, that's very important. Best do it at a bit of a run if you're nervous. Go on, go now before Ron."

"Right," Harry said, "thanks."

He pushed his trolley around and stared at the barrier. It looked very solid. _Stop whingeing, Harry. You survived a Killing Curse, supposedly unsurvivable, _twice. _What can a brick wall do?_

He took a deep breath, reciting the names of all the spells he'd learnt so far in his head and pushed his trolley ahead, going at a steady pace until, before he'd even managed to reach _enervate, _he'd walked right through the wall.

A scarlet steam engine was waiting next to a platform packed with people. A sign overhead said Hogwarts Express, Eleven O'clock. Harry looked behind him and saw a wrought-iron archway where the barrier had been, with the words Platform Nine and Three-Quarters on it.

Smoke from the train engine drifted over the heads of the chattering crowd, while cats of every colour wound here and there between their legs. Owls hooted to one another in a disgruntled sort of way over the babble and the scraping of heavy trunks.

The first few carriages were already packed with students, some hanging out of the window to talk to their families, some fighting over seats.

Harry pressed on through the crowd until he found an empty compartment near the end of the train. He put Hedwig inside before turning round and staring woefully at his trunk. He pulled out his wand, taking a deep breath before attempting his first spell.

_Wingardium leviosa!_

The trunk lifted perhaps a feet of the ground and progressed another two feet forward before the spell spluttered and died out, Harry's trunk landing in the middle of the compartment with a loud thunk.

"Need help?" It was one of the red-haired twins he'd followed through the barrier.

"Will you?"

"Sure. Fred! C'mere and help!"

With the twins' help, Harry's trunk was tucked conveniently away in a corner of the compartment.

"I don't say this often," Harry huffed, "but thanks."

The twins grinned at one. "No problem," one said.

"Fred and George Weasley," the other followed.

"Nice meeting you."

Harry grinned. "I'm Harry."

"You're not Harry _Potter _are you?" Redhead One said suspiciously.

"It's just that our sister Ginny-"

"Swears she's seen you before-"

"And that you _might _possibly-"

"- look like the Boy-Who-Lived, except-"

"- the last time she saw him, he was with _Snape-_"

"- so we figured if the Killing Curse hadn't killed him-"

"- Snape probably did."

Harry blinked. His eyes wondered from one twin to the other, wondering how he was meant to answer. Come to think of it, the crying girl among the horde of redheads, Ginny as she was called, _did _remind him remarkably of the little girl in Gringotts, who had conveniently exposed his identity to a mob of a hundred witches and wizards. _Ginny Weasley, huh…_

To his relief, he was stopped from answering as a voice came floating in through the train's open door.

"Fred? George? Are you there?"

"Coming, Mum."

With a last look at Harry, the twins hopped off the train.

Harry sat down next to the window where, half hidden, he could watch the red-haired family on the platform and hear what they were saying. Their mother had just taken out her handkerchief, rubbing her son's nose fanatically.

The conversation remained idle at best and Harry, laughing at a couple of the twins' antics, finally tuned out until the whistle sounded.

"Hurry up!" their mother said, and the three boys clambered onto the train. They leaned out of the window for her to kiss them good-bye, and their younger sister began to cry.

"Don't cry, Ginny, we'll send you loads of owls."

"We'll send you a Hogwarts toilet seat."

"George!"

"Only joking, Mom."

The train began to move and Harry watched as the mother waved and the sister, half laughing, half crying, ran to keep up with the train until it gathered too much speed, and she fell back. Harry watched, watched until the girl and her mother had completely disappeared as the train rounded the corner, and still he couldn't quite ignore the bitter feeling in his stomach.

Ron Weasley was a wizard, and so was Harry. He was eleven and today was his first day at Hogwarts, as was Harry. So why did Ron end up with such a big, loving family and not him?

-_wizardry-_

Onboard the Hogwarts Express, Ron Weasley drifted. He was slightly late arriving on the train, his nose smudged on one side, and all compartments had been taken. Of course, eventually fate found him at the door of the one compartment with room spared for him.

"Excuse me," he said timidly at the lone figure whose face was drawn to the window. "Can I sit here? Everywhere else is full."

Harry shrugged, eyes glued to a point on the compartment door reflected on the glass. "Knock yourself out."

Ron sat down. He glanced at Harry and then looked quickly out of the window, pretending he hadn't stared. In another universe, it would be Harry Potter the Gryffindor Ron found in the near-empty compartment, but a multitude of variables had rendered this universe slightly different. Harry Potter the Gryffindor was not on the train. There sat, instead, a silent, still boy who looked far less approachable, and Ron was reluctant. He took his time, closing the compartment door at snail's pace, then straightening out his clothes and ruffling his hair, shifting his position on the seat until he was certain he had discovered the best possible seating position in the longest time possible.

"Hey, Ron."

The twins, Fred and George, poked their heads inside their quiet compartment. "Listen, we're going down the middle of the train - Lee Jordan's got a giant tarantula down there."

"Right," mumbled Ron.

"Harry," said the other twin, "This is Ron, our brother. Hang on to him, will you? See you later."

The twins slid the compartment door shut behind them.

A brief interlude passed as Harry refocussed on his window and Ron tried to think of something that would not only begin a conversation lasting the entire duration of the trip but also one that would make the two of them bond forever, thus not leaving either to fend in the mystery that was Hogwarts on their own.

"Are you Harry Potter?" Ron blurted out.

Harry shrugged, desperately wishing it was the fun-loving Fred and George in the compartment with him.

"Oh - well, I thought it might be one of Fred and George's jokes," said Ron. "And have you really got - you know…" He pointed at Harry's forehead.

Harry shrugged, kind of hoping Ron wasn't only beside him because of his scar.

At Harry's lack of response, Ron cleared his throat again, unsure of himself. "Right. Er…never mind." Then in a last pathetic attempt, Ron tried once more. "But it's there, right?" he blurted. "Your _scar. _That's where You-Know-Who -"

"The Dark Lord?"

Ron stared at him strangely. "Right. Him. No one calls him that except his followers, you know."

It was the condescension that Ron had unknowing let seep in which made him strike. There was truly nothing in the world he hated more than people looking down on him. "Well by all means call him by his _real _name then, if you're so brave and forthright. _Lord Voldemort!"_

Ron flinched.

"Anything else you'd like to ask while I'm at it?" Harry hissed, suddenly feeling all the anger and bitterness rushing back into him. "Do I _remember _anything the night I _defeated _him? Do I remember the night _my parents died?"_

Snape's words rang loud and clear in Harry's ears. "Let me tell you something, Ron," Harry gritted, "The day I defeated him, the day _he _died, my parents gave me their life. Without them, there would be no Boy-Who-Lived, there would be no Harry Potter. No victory at Gringotts. My parents sacrificed their life in exchange for mine. Yes, the Killing Curse rebounded me, twice – but it was my father who faced him when my mother ran with me, it was my mother who jumped in the way the first time he tried to kill me, and it's because of them and their love for me that I'm here today. Never forget that, Ron. Never forget that the one who deserves the real glory aren't the survivors – it's the ones who sacrificed their lives for the goodness of ours."

Ron, staring at Harry in utter shock, gulped. "Sorry," he mumbled, face red with embarrassment. "I-I'm sorry."

_Yes, well, sorry isn't going to bring them back, is it? _"I'm sorry too," Harry said after a while. "I shouldn't have burst out at you like that."

"You went to live with Muggles, didn't you? What are they like?"

Harry glared out the window. "The worst sort of Muggles anyone could ever possibly come across. I lived with them for ten years, Ron. Sometimes it feels like forever. You have no idea how lucky you are to come from a Wizarding family."

Ron shrugged, looking rather gloomy. "Yeah, a family of seven children. I'm the youngest boy. With five brothers, you never get anything new. I've got Bill's old robes, Charlie's old wand, and Percy's old rat."

It was the longest Ron would ever go without stumbling or going red in front of Harry Potter. Unfortunately for Harry, the topic he was most comfortable with talking about would be complaining about his family.

Ron nattered on, pulling from his jacket a sleeping fat gray rat for Harry's inspection. "His name's Scabbers and he's useless, he hardly ever wakes up. Percy got an owl from my dad for being made prefect, but they couldn't aff - I mean, I got Scabbers instead."

Ron's ears went pink, realizing he'd said too much, and went back to staring out of the window.

Harry didn't argue. He merely gave Ron his first good look, then said, "Your nose is smudged, did you know?"

Ron coloured. "Er…right…" He frantically dapped at the dirtied patch, rather blindly.

Harry wondered how Ron's parents managed to send the entire brood to Hogwarts if they were so poor, but knew not to hold it against him. After all, _he'd_ never had any money in his life until a month ago. Not that he'd tell Ron.

Around half past twelve there was a great clattering outside in the corridor and a smiling, dimpled woman slid back their door and said, "Anything off the cart, dears?"

Ron's ears went an almost predictable pink, which happened every time he said too much and realized he was talking to Harry Potter.

Harry leapt to his feet, starving over the fact that he'd skipped breakfast, and went out into the corridor.

He had never had any money for candy with the Dursleys, and now that he had pockets rattling with gold and silver he was curious to see what the Wizarding world had to offer.

There were Bettie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, Chocolate Frogs. Pumpkin Pasties, Cauldron Cakes, Licorice Wands, and a number of other strange things Harry had never seen in his life. He settled with getting some of everything.

Ron stared as Harry stuffed the treats into his rucksack. "Hungry, are you?" he said enviously, then blushed when he realized how he'd sounded.

Harry shrugged, settling for picking up a Cauldron Cake.

Ron had taken out a lumpy package and unwrapped it. There were four sandwiches inside. "She always forgets I don't like corned beef."

"Have a pasty," said Harry, feeling exceedingly generous as Ron, rather pleased with himself, took one.

By the time Neville Longbottom finally entered the compartment, Ron had just about eaten one of every treat Harry had bought.

_-wizardry-_

There was a knock at the door of their compartment and the round-faced, tearful boy stepped in. "Sorry," he said, "but have you seen a toad at all?"

When they shook their heads, he wailed, "I've lost him! He keeps getting away from me!" The boy sniffed miserably. "Well, if you see him…"

He left.

"Don't know why he's so bothered," said Ron. "If I'd brought a toad I'd lose it as quick as I could. Mind you, I brought Scabbers, so I can't talk."

The rat was still snoozing on Ron's lap.

_Yes, you can't._

"He might have died and you wouldn't know the difference," Ron blabbered on in disgust.

"I know a way that'll wake him up," Harry piped up, remembering a spell he'd seen Snape perform.

He pulled out his wand, the incantation whispering in his head, and he'd just raised his wand when the compartment door slid open again.

The toadless boy was back, but this time he had a girl with him. She was already wearing her new Hogwarts robes and she had lots of bushy brown hair, and rather large front teeth.

"Has anyone seen a toad? Neville's lost one."

"I thought we already told you, or would you like to hear it again?" Harry muttered irritably. The annoyingly bossy tone she'd adopted reminding him of Aunt Petunia and he'd sworn when he left Privet Drive that he'd never, ever go back. "We _don't have _the toad."

Perhaps she would have left things there as they were, but then she noticed Harry's poised wand. "Oh, are you doing magic? Let's see it, then."

She sat down. _Uninvited. _Even Ron looked taken aback.

Harry glared at her. "Why should I show it to _you? _In fact, who invited _you _into this conversation anyway?"

The girl reddened slightly. "Well, that's not very nice."

_No. It isn't. _But when he realized the girl was not about to move, Harry took out his wand and pointed. _Enervate!_

Almost immediately, the rat jumped up, shocked. It looked around, then seconds letter, fell asleep again.

"Well, it's not very impressive, is it?" The girl said snobbishly. "I've tried a few simple spells just for practice and they've all worked brilliantly for me. Nobody in my family's magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it's the very best school of witchcraft there is, I've heard -I've learned all our course books by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough - I'm Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?"

She said all this very fast and by the end of her monologue, Ron was stunned and Harry trembled with anger. _Patronizing know-it-all._

"For your information, _Granger_," he snarled, "that was a fifth-year spell. I'd like to see you try getting it right on your first go."

Hermione Granger looked duly unconvinced. "A fifth year spell?" she repeated, "well then it's rather bland for fifth years to learn, don't you think? I imagine they'd be teaching spells like the Patronus charm, or the Protean charm by then."

_Yeah, right._

"The worthiness of a spell isn't for you to decide, Granger," Harry couldn't help snapping. "The point isn't how _impressive _it is or how logic-defying it turns out to be. The point is that it's useful, it does what it's supposed to do and does it _well._ Should we learn the Patronus charm in fifth year, the general message to the public would be that we'd actually be _facing_ soul-sucking Dementors. Compare that to _Enervate, _a spell that makes waking up our roommates much easier, a spell we'll grasp in no time that we'll be using on a daily basis, and which do you think I'd prefer to learn?"

Hermione Granger stared at him in shock and disgust. Huh. He may as well have told her there was no point gaining an education.

_That's right, Granger. I'd rather learn how to straighten my hair than how to fight off Dark lords. Apparently it's my destiny to vanquish _him_, but I'm here not to learn how to survive as a Wizarding citizen. I'm here to learn how to live as one._

"You – I," she spluttered. "How can you _say _that? What are you even doing here then?"

Harry regarded her flabbergasted appearance with slight amusement. "I'm here to learn how to be a good Wizard citizen, of course. I _won't_ be asked to fend off Dementors, slay dragons, or catch Dark Wizards. I'm here for the education I was promised, for a life as safe and secure as every one of those ignorant Muggles are getting, because that is what I deserve."

Granger glared. "How selfish of you," she said angrily. "Well, _I'm _hoping to give something back to the Wizarding world, as a minister of the Ministry of Magic, perhaps."

It was here that Harry realized Hermione Granger was probably 'the sort' the pale boy he'd met in Madam Malkins had been talking about.

He snorted. "You want to rule a people who don't give the slightest damn about you?"

Hermione glared. "They do! They care! I'm magical. I'm a witch. I was asked by invitation by one of the best magical schools in Europe. How can they not care?"

"Let me ask you something, Granger," Harry said quietly. "Before you got that letter, did you have any idea a Wizarding world existed?"

Hermione spluttered. "No, not exactly, but I -"

"And how about you, Weasley?" Harry drawled. "Since when have you known you'd be coming to Hogwarts?"

The two of them looked at Ron expectantly, and under such intense request, Ron reddened. "I, well, I've always known, but I suppose the first time we knew for sure was when I accidentally turned Percy's hair pink. I think I was five."

"Is it fair, Hermione, for _you _to only found out another world existed when you received your letter, when Ron has known magic existed virtually his entire life? How does it feel to discover that nearly _everything_ you've learnt for eleven years_, _maths, Shakespeare, history, science, and _logic, _has all come down to mean nothing? That everything you'd spent your life trying to achieve has all just been a waste of time?

"Is it fair, I ask you, for the Wizarding world to keep you in a place you never belonged and then at a moment's notice, expect you to be a part of another and act like that's _normal?_ Ron's had the benefit of knowing about the Wizarding world since he was born. But you and I? We are rootless, drifting people. How can we say we belong to this world when for the last ten, we've belonged to another? We have been living a _lie, _Hermione. A big, stupid lie. And you know what? No one cared. No one bothered. They just watched it happen without doing anything to help us."

Hermione blinked. Perhaps Harry did make sense but the fact that he had insulted her wasn't forgotten. It would, in fact, take Hermione years before finally realizing the truth in his words. For now, she fought for her values.

"At least I'll be _doing _something for them! That's more than what _you_ can say!"

_Now that, Great Britain, is ironic._ Harry smiled bemusedly at her. He shifted his cap a little, just enough to show the tip of his scar. Ron's eyes bulged.

The Muggle-born witch frowned, but suddenly she burst out excitedly, "You're Harry Potter! I know all about you, of course - I got a few extra books for background reading, and you're in _Modern Magical History_ and _The_ _Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ and _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_."

_You have got to be kidding me._

Harry could only stare at her in utter disbelief. "She knows all about me, she claims. I'm sorry, but where were you the last eleven years of my life?"

Hermione huffed with indignation. "How _dare -_"

"I dare, Granger," Harry said coolly, "because it's what you deserve. Perhaps you'd never understand, but some of us happen to find you incredibly rude and bossy. Had you come in here to actually _befriend_ me, I might have been nicer. Either way, you've overstayed."

Granger glared, reddening slightly and turning to Weasley, who could only stare between the two of them in a slightly intimidated manner, for support.

"Well, if _you're _what we have against You-Know-Who, then we're better off all dead anyway!" And she left, taking the toadless boy with her.

Harry fumed. _How dare she – what gives her any right to say that to me? Is it wrong, to want to just live? Does she see it as cowardly, wanting just to be normal? I never asked to be a hero, Hermione Granger. If I could, I'd give you my God-damned place in this world…go on, _you _can be the one they're expecting to kill the Dark Lord. _You _can be the one they point at and whisper about when they see your scar. I bet you'd indulge Weasley with every story of your upbringing if you were me._

"Whatever house I'm in, I hope she's not in it," Ron said after a period of stunned silence.

For Harry, it was more than just hope. The first seeds of contempt had been sowed, and all Harry could do now was fume. _Immature, Granger. Ron's hardly better, but at least he understands some basic human courtesy._

"What house are Fred and George in?" Harry asked casually, trying to settle the mood once more.

"Gryffindor," said Ron. Gloom seemed to be settling on him again. "Mom and Dad were in it, too. I don't know what they'll say if I'm not. I don't suppose Ravenclaw would be too bad, but imagine if they put me in Slytherin."

Harry stared at him. "And why not?"

Ron reddened, staring at Harry in apprehension. "W-well, I mean, it's _Slytherin, _Harry. Who'd want to go there?"

Harry raised his eyebrows. "I can name a few who wouldn't be all too pleased about getting into Gryffindor either," he said softly, thinking back to Snape's words.

Ron blinked for a moment, as if it was something he'd never even contemplated. "Don't be stupid, Harry," he chortled, and here Harry winced, "you'd have to be crazy not to want to be in Gryffindor. It's where your parents went, you know. Besides, you're the Boy-Who-Lived. You _have _to be in Gryffindor."

"Professor Snape was the one who took me to Diagon Alley to buy my school things," Harry added casually, "he didn't seem particularly happy with Gryffindor house even _existing._"

"That's Slytherin for you," Ron said darkly. "Snape's the head of Slytherin. I'd be careful around him if I were you. There's no witch or wizard who turned dark that wasn't from Slytherin."

Harry rolled his eyes, slightly irritated at the patronizing way Ron had corrected him, but as he began to rebut, the compartment door slid open yet again. Harry was just about to snarl at Neville or Granger, when he realized it was the pale boy from Madam Malkin's robe shop, looking at Harry with slight irritation, accompanied by two sidekicks.

"It's true, isn't it?" he said. "You're Harry Potter. I can't believe you didn't tell me."

Harry smirked, giving his sidekicks an evaluating stare. "I can't believe you didn't realize. So who broke the news to you – the Weasley twins or Granger?"

"Granger – the know-it-all searching for Longbottom's precious toad. Oh, and this is Crabbe and Goyle," said the pale boy carelessly, noticing where Harry was looking. "And my name's Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."

Ron gave a slight cough, which might have been hiding a snigger. Draco Malfoy looked at him with barely disguised distain.

"Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford." He turned back to Harry. "Some Wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."

He held out his hand to shake Harry's, and Harry rolled his eyes, sharing with Ron an unimpressed look. "I'm not entirely stupid, Draco. I _can _tell the wrong sort for myself."

Malfoy sneered, thinking Harry was about to refuse his hand. The triumphant look Ron gave him also didn't escape Harry's notice.

"_However_," he continued, "if that's an invite to being friends, then I'd gladly shake it."

Ron stared at him in outrage. Malfoy in bewilderment. With dignity of course.

"Sit down, Malfoy," he said. "I'd like to know you a bit."

Draco looked immensely pleased at this and complied. He couldn't have been happier if Harry _had _shaken his hand.

"Harry!" Ron burst, face slightly red, "you live with Muggles, you don't understand – that's _Malfoy. _People like us don't make friends with their sort."

Harry stared. So did Malfoy, and it took Harry a few seconds to realize the proud blonde was waiting for _him _to do something, perhaps a test of friendship. When given the choice of Ron Weasley and Draco Malfoy, Harry, naturally, had to pass.

"I'm not stupid, Ron," he drawled, "Draco here is as good a friend as you are, so if you want to stay in this compartment, I'd be quiet."

Weasley reddened even further. "You can't tell me what to do," he growled, "y-you don't own this compartment, you know."

Harry smiled. "Funny. You asked for my permission to sit here earlier. You must've thought I had _some _entitlement to it."

Malfoy sniggered. His bodyguards followed suit, though Harry doubted they knew what they were laughing about. Ron's face had turned purple by now, and truthfully, the boy was afraid to say anything.

Simply, he left.

"Wonderful," Harry muttered, "the first classmate I meet and I insult him."

It took Harry a moment longer to realize – Draco still hadn't stopped smirking.

Harry scowled. "Do share, Malfoy. You look far too happy for your own good."

"You know Potter," Malfoy said smugly, "_I _want to be in Slytherin. Weasley's the one who wants to be in Gryffindor. I reckon it's fate, you choosing the Slytherin over the Gryffindor."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Unfortunately for both of you, I actually _want _to be in Gryffindor. It's the house my parents were in."

Draco's smirk didn't budge. At all. "I respect that, Potter. Getting Sorted into Slytherin's been a tradition of my family's so naturally that's where I'm hoping to go. You could say we're on the same boat. The only problem is, I'm having a fairly hard time imagining you as one. A Gryffindor, that is."

Harry sighed. _Great. First Snape, now Draco Malfoy. _"It doesn't matter, does it? I never had the luxury of knowing my parents. Getting into Gryffindor, just thinking of sleeping in the same dorm my father slept, sit on the couch my mother once read from…it makes me feel closer to them, slightly."

"They're dead, Potter," Malfoy said emotionlessly. "People die all the time. You don't even remember them. They're like the neighbours who moved away a _decade_ ago. Move on."

He glared. "My parents died with honour. Why do you think I'm even alive here today? My mother sacrificed her life for mine and I'll not have anyone disrespecting that."

"Potter, you're honestly thinking she's the only witch to _ever _sacrifice her life for her son's? Mothers do it all the time – it's why they're _mothers. _You're right – she did sacrifice her life for yours. But I don't believe, not in any way possible, that it was because of her sacrifice that you survived the Killing Curse and defeated the Dark Lord. It's just not right, or else it would've happened loads of times."

This, funnily enough, was something Harry had also long pondered over. It just didn't seem right. Unless the general population of wizards were all bred to be cowards or the Dark Lord had sneezed when he cast the curse, accidentally weakening it into a Cutting Hex, Harry Potter truly can't have survived with his mother's sacrifice. The Killing Curse wasn't invented yesterday – to Harry's knowledge, it had existed for centuries at least. So why was he the first with a mother who protected him from death with her protection?

"Besides, you have your other relatives, don't you? Ones that actually are alive."

Harry swallowed. "I live with Muggles," he confessed bitterly. "They're like the worst sort of Muggles alive, and that's saying something. They absolutely loathe my existence. I have no desire to remember my mother in that light."

"You have magical relatives too, you know," Draco informed him, slightly surprised he hadn't known, "I mean, sure, the Potters have just about died out and you're probably the last one there is, your father's mother, she's a Black, and about the entire Slytherin house is made up of them." Draco grinned. _"I'm _one of them. My mother was a Black. You have tons of people distantly related to you, actually."

Harry blinked. "I have…family?"

"'Course. You're a Half-blood, at least. That's half-pure. All the pure-blood families are related one way or another. Didn't you know?"

Harry was speechless. _I have family. I have people who share my blood in this world…who was it that sent me live with the Dursleys? Who was it that withheld an entire world from me? _The more he thought, the angrier he became. _Who was it that took away the happiness of my childhood? What right did they have to take me away from my family?_

"I never knew. I've always known, always thought I was alone in this world." Harry glared. "Why didn't any of you bother trying to find me?"

"Don't you know who left you with your guardians?" Malfoy said, slightly incredulous that Harry would dare ask such a question. "The _Great _Albus Dumbledore. Apparently the most powerful wizard since Merlin. Of course, he wouldn't be far off if power was insanity…barking mad, that man."

"Albus Dumbledore?" Harry said sharply. "Isn't he the Hogwarts Headmaster?"

_What the hell was the Hogwarts Headmaster doing with my guardianship?_

Draco rolled his eyes, slightly impatient at his ignorance. "Yes, but even more importantly, he's the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot council."

"And that entitled him to my welfare, did it?" Harry said hotly.

Malfoy shrugged, nonchalantly. He didn't seem to share Harry's irritation at the man, just slight ridicule. "Let's put it like this – the Minister of Magic has an owl he uses specifically for the purpose of sending the old man letters asking for advice. Bloke can't walk on his own two feet without Dumbledore guiding him."

"Why isn't Dumbledore the Minister of Magic then?"

Draco smirked. "Think about it. Whenever something goes wrong, it's never Dumbledore who gets all the blame, it's Fudge."

Draco went on to talk about Dumbledore, from his curious obsession with Muggle candy to the colour of his robes…Harry meanwhile tuned out, thinking back to what the boy had said. _Chief Warlock, eh? And of this Wizengamot thingy…that's a start. Looks like Dumbledore'll have to go down if I'm ever leaving Hogwarts for a Dursley-free home. _

"I suppose he wouldn't keep his position very long should word ever get out that Harry Potter lived with Muggles who forced him into servitude and kept him in the cupboard under the stairs," Harry mused half-heartedly. Of course, it would be a piece of his life nobody should _ever _know, what with his pride dangling on the line, but should he ever threaten Dumbledore with the fact, surely he'd get his way. That, and the fact that he was Harry Potter.

Draco sniggered. "Great imagination you have there, Potter."

Harry didn't have the heart to tell him it was the truth.

"See what I mean?" he continued, "That was such a Slytherin thing to say. Actually, everything you've done has been pretty Slytherin. What in Salazar's name made you think you'd be a _Gryffindor?"_

Harry scowled. _They'd both probably take it as an insult but the truth is, Ron and Draco are really pretty similar._

"You probably don't know much about the Wizarding world, do you?" Draco mused. "Alright, we'll start simple. First, there are Squibs. They're basically people born from Wizarding families who can't perform any magic. Then we have the Muggle-borns. People from Muggle families that are magical, from reasons of the unknown. And then there's blood traitors, like Weasley…"

The next half hour marked the re-education of Harry James Potter, as Draco Malfoy made it is duty to inform the Boy-Who-Lived exactly _what _he believed the Wizarding world was all about.

_-wizardry-_

The next part of the torturously long journey to Hogwarts involved Draco Malfoy finally bringing up the existence of his companions.

"Come, let me introduce you to them."

Harry nodded stiffly, wondering what kind of friends Draco could possibly make without offending or boring. Probably pureblooded, aristocratic children like him.

Draco led him to their compartment and opened the door with a dramatic bow, something Harry didn't have the heart to tell him how unfitting it seemed on someone who looked more used to being bowed _at. _It was a joke, of course. But Harry couldn't help but feel as if that bow signified Draco's status for the rest of his school years. He was rich, yes, and a pureblood, but Harry was the _Boy-Who-Lived. _He was someone generations of wizards to come would never forget. Draco had acknowledged that, almost as if Harry had passed the test to earn his respect. It made Harry feel slightly exhausted.

Six of them, well-dressed in wizarding robes and looking impeccably groomed, each adopting a look of indifference (although with lack of good looks for some of them, Harry imagined it easily mistaken for stupidity), greeted him with surprising interest as Draco introduced them.

"Friends, Harry Potter. Potter, these are my friends – Blaise Zabini, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, Pansy Parkinson, Daphne Greengrass and Millicent Bulstrode."

Harry noted that Draco introduced every friend with an ounce of pride, even Pansy Parkinson, who seemed to have Obsessive Wife Syndrome concerning Draco, and Crabbe and Goyle, who had immediately stalked to Draco's side like bodyguards. Bulstrode's face was largely blank, except for her curious and slightly awestruck eyes. Daphne Greengrass and Blaise Zabini both seemed like classy, well-nurtured people with good looks, people worth noting down for their connections.

"Harry Potter," Daphne Greengrass mused wryly, shaking her hand politely. "Ever the honour."

"Draco, oh Draco, you wouldn't believe who I saw on the train. You remember the Longbottoms, right? Well their heir, Neville, he's coming to Hogwarts too! That whimpering pudge of uselessness! His family gave him a _toad_ as reward for not being a squib. I was there when he bought it. About the instant the woman at the counter handed the thing over the Longbottom boy yelped louder than a roaring hippogriff, and the poor thing got itself stuck wriggling inside his pants!"

Ah yes, Pansy Parkinson. The unremarkable girl said all of the above, eyes stuck to an unimpressed Draco Malfoy, while she languidly shook Harry's hand. Harry stared, a little incredulous at the strong resemblance her face held to a pug.

"He had to take his pants off just to get it out!" Pansy continued delightedly.

"Did you get a good look?" an amused and equally unimpressed Blaise Zabini shot back. Parkinson turned an instant deep red. Millicent, Daphne, Blaise, Harry and even Draco all snickered a little.

"Of course not!" Parkinson shrilled desperately, eyes still on Draco, "I would never do anything disrespectful!"

Blaise turned to Harry, a smirk donning his lips as the rest of them watched Parkinson cling on to Draco, who basked in the attention. "Don't mind her. I'm the only one with a sense of humour around here."

Beside him, Millicent snorted. "I don't know what your definition of humour _is_, Blaise, but it must be different to mine, seeing as you are _not funny._"

Malfoy coughed, slightly embarrassed on Pansy's behalf at the disbelieving look on Harry's face. "We saw Longbottom ages ago, Pansy. It's old news now."

Pansy looked positively heartbroken.

"Honestly, you're even slower than the _Daily Prophet's _gossip column," Daphne added cruelly, "and _they're _still talking about what happened to Nott's mother."

Pansy suddenly brightened up. "Oh! Yes, I remember that. Nott, the loner. Did you know? I heard he cuts -"

"Has anyone heard?" Zabini cut in boredly. "Supposedly the same Theodore Nott managed a place in Hogwarts. He's on this train, sitting in one of the other compartments, right now."

It was enough to perk Malfoy's interest and infuriate Parkinson. "Do you ever refrain from interrupting, Zabini?" she snarled. Then, almost to herself, she muttered, "though I suppose you _should _care about Nott, what with his father being single now."

Zabini didn't comment. Harry supposed it was half-true, whatever Pansy meant.

"_Nott?" _Malfoy choked. "He's on the train? Why'd he even bother? It's just the same circles; he never makes any friends."

For a second, Harry felt rather like this Nott character. Here he was, in a compartment full of children with upbringing far better than his and apart from the introduction, only Daphne Greengrass and Blaise Zabini had bothered saying something to Harry, and even then it was only of his own worth.

It wasn't like he didn't want to say anything. Friends such as these weren't formed immediately and years of being together had clearly welded them into their own closely-knit circles. For a second, he almost felt like seeking Ron out; Ron actually _talked _to him. Ron worshipped him, in fact. He wasn't like Malfoy, who acted like the king of the universe until he'd deemed Harry worth his time, nor Pansy who didn't really care much about Harry but worshipped _Draco _of all people. Not even Blaise, who thought the world of himself, or Daphne who had yet to disconnect her face from her mirror.

It took another minute of being excluded from the conversation for him to realize. The people in his compartment didn't think much of him, for some reason, but the were also weary about hating him. Here, for once in his life, were people who treated him…like he was _normal. _Just an average eleven year old. For once in his life, he was given the chance to prove himself, willingly and as an individual with the course of the universe within his control. It wouldn't be because of his 'freakiness', nor his strange ability to make brick walls appear at times of need, or of course because destiny had made him spell-proof to the Killing Curse. It would be him, Harry Potter, a kid trying to fit in and make something out of his name, for once at _liberty_ to seek others' attention after ten years of suppressing that strange desire to love and want.

And that, strangely enough, made him happy.

_-wizardry-_

It was only after Pansy Parkinson was sorted into Slytherin that Harry noticed the trend – Every one of those acquaintances in the compartment Draco had come from managed to land themselves in the very house, with the exception of Zabini, whose sorting would naturally commence last, much to the boy's displeasure.

For a moment, he wondered, mind drifting from the boredom and repetition of what was supposed to be his first night at Hogwarts. Did he truly belong in Gryffindor, as Snape had said he was, or was it _destiny _again, once again at play, making the Weasley boy repulsed and the Malfoy one offering his friendship? What if he truly did belong in Snape's house, the House of Slytherin, more than the other, louder, boisterous house of red and gold?

"Potter, Harry!"

Unsurprisingly, whispers resounded as Harry made his way forward, hating the way they stared, gossiped, exchanged rumours, and pointed. Had these people truly nothing else better to do?

The Sorting Hat was on Harry's head before he had time to process the fact that every single eye in the Great Hall of Hogwarts was on him. Perhaps he blushed.

"_Well, well, well…finally the pert little mind I wanted to see…"_

"Gryffindor please," Harry muttered.

"_Oh? And why is that? I find you rather cunning for a Gryffindor with a tad too much self-preservation…you, after all, understand the feeling of hate."_

"Gryffindor," he begged. "Come on. I belong there. You and I both know."

"_I think not, Mister Potter. You have much to learn. The want to go through life unnoticed is something I will _not _stand…"_

"Please," Harry whispered, "I just want to live."

"_You want to live…but sometimes, that in itself is an ambition..."_

Harry Potter swallowed.

"_The house of Snakes will teach you ambition and how to exploit it, pride and how to strip it…You will not regret my choice. Should you ever need strength, just poke around my head a little…_SLYTHERIN!"

It was surreal. The only indication reality gave of the Sorting Hat actually pronouncing Harry's house was the movement Professor McGonagall made as she lifted the Hat from his head and moved to unroll the scroll for the next name.

It was at this instant that Harry pondered the words of the Hogwarts Sorting Hat. _Poke around its head? What does it –?_

Before McGonagall had the chance to read out the next name, Harry turned back the way he came and tentatively reached his hand inside the hat. _I'm fingering the stupid hat…Why on Earth did I listen to it…_

The next few seconds didn't disappoint.

A smooth, slightly warm handle made its way inside the sweaty palm of Harry Potter's left hand. Professor McGonagall's mouth, slightly ajar in the motion of reprimanding him, and fallen into a state of utter shock and awe.

For out of the Sorting Hat came the Sword of Gryffindor.

The Great Hall was completely silent.

Harry Potter, meanwhile, was admiring the gleam of the polished fancy weapon under the enchanted night sky. The hilt was encrusted with rubies, each probably worth what the Uncle Vernon earned in a month. The point looked particularly lethal and Harry felt the urge to jab the weapon at Dumbledore, the old man who Draco had pointed out at the staff table, looking particularly peaked.

_Huh. Serves him right for thinking he could just give me away to the Dursleys._

"Mister Potter-!" McGonagall spluttered.

Gryffindor house as a whole looked incredibly insulted.

"Potter, the Sword of Gryffindor is an incredibly valuable heirloom you're playing with. One that belongs to the school. Please kindly return the sword back where you took it before I take the first house points Slytherin will lose this year," the Head of Gryffindor said sternly, looking at him with an expression Harry couldn't quite describe.

Harry spared her a look before swinging his sword a little. The action came surprisingly easy to him, almost like instinct, and the lightness of the magnificent weapon only did to make him look incredibly impressive in front of the entire school. "Cool," he breathed. "I think I'll keep this, mind."

He paused, knowing there was no way anyone could argue when such a beautiful weapon was in _his _hands. _Well, if it worked with the Sorting Hat…_

And with that, he drew out the cap he'd worn the entire night until moments before the Sorting from his pocket, raised the Sword of Gryffindor, almost in victory, grinned mischievously at the silent, watching Great Hall of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…and promptly dropped the Sword in.

And with that, the Slytherin walked away from the Sorting Hat and Gryffindor's astounded Head of House with Gryffindor's most treasured artefact -

Harry put his cap back on.

Needless to say, it took several minutes to take Slytherin house to shut up, and even when it had (under McGonagall's insistence that house points _would_ be lost and detention _would _be given), nobody at the table, or any other table for that matter, seemed able to look away from Harry, whether it was with awe, shock, admiration, or utter betrayal/heartbreak/desolation.

Harry himself did little as he went to sit down next to a smirking Draco.

"What did I say, Harry?" he drawled arrogantly. "You'll go where you're meant to go…and fortunately for you, it's with the rest of us snakes. You might be the Heir of Gryffindor, but even the Sorting Hat knows you were made to be a Slytherin." He paused. "The Sword of Gryffindor aside, I hope you know you're still a Slytherin at heart."

Draco Malfoy was right. There was something called house pride, and now that he was a Slytherin, he would be expected to uphold loyalty and respect to the house above all else, just like any other child bred to be a Slytherin. Harry didn't have that advantage but in no way did it mean he was any less of a Slytherin, even with the Sword of Gryffindor in his hands.

Beside him, Pansy passed him a chocolate frog. Nott gave him a silent, crooked grin from across the table. Harry smirked, satisfied with the fact that he finally deserved and gained their attention and respect.

He was Slytherin now. He was finally one of them. And no way in hell was that going to change.

_-wizardry-_

"Weasley, Ronald!"

It should have been quick, painless, just another Gryffindor Weasley, running off happily and in relief to join his brood –

"SLYTHERIN!"

Oh no, oh no, Ron whimpered.

Oh _yes, _Fate cackled mischievously.

"_Time you learnt a lesson," _the Sorting Hat muttered. "_The feud of the Houses will be your downfall, should I place you with your brothers."_

Ron never made it to the table of red and gold, where his brothers sat, all adorning similar expressions of utter shock and horror. Neither, though, did he reach the destination of the green and silver bannered table, for the second shock of the night ran through and Ron, in a state of utter panic, shame and embarrassment, tripped as he stood from the stool and fainted as he hit the floor with a resounding thump.

The entire Slytherin table sat stock-still, torn between laughing and scowling.

Zabini, Blaise meanwhile, was scowling at the fact that Harry, then Ron, had consumed up most of the Great Hall's attention, and that his Sorting would be just another typical Sorting.

The rest of the Great Hall just wondered what the heck was up with the Sorting Hat that year.

_-wizardry-_

Stranger things had been known to happen in the Gryffindor common room (sometime during the seventies involving certain Marauders, fish, an eggbeater and marshmallows) but it had been too long since any of the Gryffindor students, or for that matter _any _of the four houses, last held a gathering that included and united every single member of its house.

Naturally, the one occurring directly after the feast in the Gryffindor Common Room was about Harry Potter.

"The easiest way would be to pass around a petition," Percy Weasley decided in a show of practicality. "If we can get all of Gryffindor to sign it…"

"But that's only a quarter of the school," fifth year Oliver Wood pointed out. "We'd need more of that to convince the teachers to resort him."

"Unless we got the teachers' votes as well," Carl Hopkins piped up excitedly. "I mean, Dumbledore and McGonagall'll probably be the first to sign it. Even _Snape, _I'll bet."

"I wouldn't say that, Hopkins," Percy said knowingly, "Clearly you haven't been reading _The Daily Prophet. _Professor Snape was the one who took Harry Potter to Diagon Alley when his muggle relatives couldn't. If anything, I'd surmise he was the very individual who _encouraged _the boy to get into Slytherin."

"No _wonder _he's not with us," Seamus Finnegan mused bitterly. "He's got _Snape _backing him up there. It was probably 'get into Slytherin or else'."

"Makes sense," the Weasley twins added their sickle.

"Snape's sneer –"

" - and looks –"

" – not mention slime –"

" – probably rubbed off on him."

The Gryffindors snickered. "Oy, Fred," someone in the audience piped up, even though it turned out to be George he was addressing, "ain't your lil brother in Slytherin too?"

The house immediately quietened, staring at the twins, and Percy to an extent, in silent contemplation. The Weasleys fidgeted and reddened.

"Shut it, Davidson," George muttered. "Ron's Sorting was an accident."

Most left it at that. The Weasley twins were amiable, but rather feared for their reputation as pranksters. Even Percy was regarded as high on the social hierarchy, what with his new position as prefect. No one else, therefore, dared to inform George his excuse was a rather pathetic one.

Hermione Granger still snorted.

Startled first years and slightly irritated seventh years alike turned to stare at her.

"Something you'd like to add, firstie?"

Unperturbed, Hermione rolled her eyes as well, astonishing her house with her audacity. "Haven't any of you read _Hogwarts, A History_? The Sorting Hat is _never _wrong. It sorted Harry Potter and your brother in Slytherin because that's where they _belong_."

It was a concept even Percy Weasley would have trouble grasping, and unfortunately for Hermione, the only perspective Gryffindor, her housemates saw a comment such as _'belonging in Slytherin' _in was a grave insult.

A cacophony of loud, offended voices naturally followed.

"The Boy-Who-Lived _belonging _in Slytherin?"

"He's even got the bloody sword -"

"Our brother's a _Weasley, _nothing less of Gryffindor -"

"Are you out of your bloody mind -?"

"-Heir of Gryffindor, I swear –"

"I mean, the rest of us turned out alright -"

"Unbelievable, muggleborns-"

"- even Percy –"

Hermione Granger took a deep breath.

"SHUT UP!"

Surprisingly, it worked.

"As I was _saying," _she glared, "the Sorting Hat just _doesn't _get it wrong. It was Godric Gryffindor's own hat. Surely you can't be saying the founder of our _house _was wrong. The possibility of two students getting mistakenly sorted on the same night just isn't very likely. And if it did happen, who's to say there aren't other mistakes out there too? How do you know none of you aren't _Slytherins_?"

A stunned silence greeted the students. Strangely enough, to a group of wizards, a muggle's logic almost seemed to make sense…

"This entire argument is simply ridiculous. It doesn't even _matter _that much which houses they're in, though personally I think Harry Potter would enjoy it more with people just as rude as he is. Now _if _you don't mind, I'm going to bed. _I_ at least _care_ about having classes tomorrow, first thing in the morning, and I suggest the rest of you start to, too."

And with that she promptly stomped her way up the staircase, remembering to dramatically slam the door before she left and entered the girls' dorms.

The rest of the Gryffindors just watched her leave, contemplating her words. It took the congregation a grand total of four seconds before Oliver Wood finally broke the silence.

"Right. So this petition…"

_-wizardry-_

"Gather round, first years," the Slytherin prefect called.

The Slytherin common room was a long, low, dungeon-style room, located under the Hogwarts Lake and furnished with green lamps and carved armchairs, emitting a slightly greenish glow. Skulls acted as ornaments that decorated the room, and the banner of the snake hung proudly above the fireplace.

Draco gave Harry another self-satisfied smirk before slinking off to join the masses that had crowded around the prefects who stood, directly under the banner.

The prefect cleared his throat. "Well, usually Professor Snape, our Head of House introduces the first years, as many of you well know, but it seems the Professor has been…otherwise engaged today. We'll expect him to turn up to Potions class tomorrow." The prefect smirked nastily. "I'm Flint, Slytherin Prefect."

There was silence as everyone paused.

"Welcome, first years Slytherin. You have been selected as the ones worthy of upholding this house's values. You have been chosen for your ambition, your resourcefulness, your cleverness, your self-preservation and, for some," Flint, Slytherin Prefect darted a look at Crabbe and Goyle, "your immense luck."

Zabini gave Harry a grin.

"This year, we welcome what I am certain will graduate to become among the finest characters the Wizarding world will produce. We have here, the Malfoy scion, the son and heir of Zabini, Nott, Parkinson and, of course," Flint's eyes levelled Harry, lips curled into an amused grimace, "Harry Potter."

Snickers resounded across the common room. The fact that Harry Potter had been given Gryffindor's sword moments after his hat had declared him a Slytherin and then _stowed_ the sword _in his own cap_ was a joke no Slytherin would ever be able to let go of. A few dared to glance at Harry, wondering what his reaction would be.

He shrugged. With the title of Boy-Who-Lived came the burden of being recognised, idolised and resented for being a hero. On the other hand, they were a step above Hermione Granger, who had actually _insulted _him, and they hadn't even _mentioned _Weasley…

"As Slytherins, we uphold the values of independence, wit, loyalty to each other, the ability to evade trouble, resourcefulness, and of course, heritage."

Ron Weasley, fresh from the hospital wing, snorted. Heritage was, naturally, the Slytherin way of saying blood purity. Just as evading trouble was another way of saying getting out of detentions and redirecting the blame.

Unfortunately for Ron, Harry wasn't the only one who had heard. The entire common room seemed to stiffen at the sound of his muffled laugh.

"Anything you'd like to add, Weasley?" Flint said sharply, glaring at the only redhead in the room with obvious dislike.

Weasley gulped, luckily with enough self-preservation to know he needed to remain silent. Now was not the time to defend his morals, but in the years to come, he would have plenty of chances.

_-wizardry-_

The first dispute occurred nearly as soon as the prefects had waved them off to journey to their dorms on their own.

The congregation regarded the common room once more with general contentment.

"How exciting!" Pansy squealed to both Millicent and Daphne. "It feels just like home."

The others thought similar but at the absence of an authority, Ron couldn't help but inject snidely, "oh, you live in dungeons back home, do you?"

"Of course not!" Pansy replied indignantly. "I'm only saying. Don't you love the feel of this place? It's everything I dreamt it would be."

Ron scoffed at her melodrama. Clearly, he didn't share her sentiments.

It was here that Theodore Nott, the boy who hadn't spoken or looked at anyone apart from Harry the entire night, finally raised his voice.  
"What is your _problem, _Weasley? Class hasn't even started - we're not even _in _our dorms yet – and already you act like you're so much better than the rest of us. Mind telling me what your deal is?"

Ron glared. "Oh, come on!" he whined, "as if you don't know. I hate it here. I _hate _it! I never wanted to be a Slytherin. It's not fair."

Nott wasn't finished. "Not fair? The Sorting Hat wasn't exactly forced at knifepoint to put you in Slytherin, and I doubt anyone would bother Confunding it just to get _you _here. So why don't you give us a _legitimate_ reason to why you seem so against the idea of being a Slytherin?"

"I don't _want _to be a Slytherin!" Ron burst, "I'm a _Weasley._ Weasleys aren't meant to be in Slytherin! I'm not a Dark wizard!"

Harry couldn't help but snort. "And I'm Harry Potter. You don't exactly see _me _complaining about ending up here."

Ron scoffed. "You don't count, Harry. You grew up with _Muggles. _What would _you_ know?"

It wasn't good. One thing both Ron and Harry would soon learn was that Slytherins always stuck to their own.

"Why don't you tell us then, Weasley," Millicent snarled, stomping to Harry's side with surprising outrage, "what is it about Slytherin you hate too much? And don't you dare say because of Dark wizards like you-Know-Who, because we make up a whole quarter of the school, and there'd be way too many Dark wizards if that were true."

Weasley swallowed. And, of course, reddened. "This entire house disgusts me. I hate it here. Of all the places I go to live in a castle, why the dungeons? It's so cold here. And everything here's just so…_green. I…hate…green!"_

There came a second of incredulous silence before the outrage came.

"Weasley, you're pathetic!" Draco snarled, clearly upset. "You honestly think the Gryffindors will take in second hand rubbish like you? Then again, with so many brothers in that house, it shouldn't be too hard. You have the honour of being Sorted into by far the best house here at this school, the same house the _Boy-Who-Lived _was Sorted into, by the way, you get to sleep alongside the children of our generation's leaders and purebloods of the _right_ sort, you get to hang out with the elite of the elite, and all you can think of is _you don't like green?"_

Ron shrank, eyes searchingly pleading Harry to defend him.

"You know, Ron," Harry said softly, "for a god-damned self-proclaimed saint, you're kind of arrogant. What gives you the authority to bring down the name of a thousand-year old house, like it's nothing? Like it doesn't matter? Not only do you insult Slytherin house, but you insult _me_ and every single accomplished witch and wizard who has ever slept in these dungeons. You _are _kind of pathetic."

No one else knew what to say after these words but one thing was clear – their estimation of Harry Potter was going up. He had just defended the honour of every person in the room, some with parents who had fought against his, others who had never truly given his title another thought, and for the next seven years, no one would forget it.

"How dare _you, _Weasley, insult this house?" Zabini continued, subtly and deftly shuffling to stand beside Harry. "What gives you any right to look down upon us and act like _you're_ ashamed of _us_? If anything, having such a cowardly, disloyal _brat _in Slytherin is what will forever shame this house."

The assemblage of the first year Slytherins continued and grew, as Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass dropped their trivial conversation and made their way to the alliance.

"Tell me, Ron," Harry said softly, knowing that in the end it would come down to this, "are you ashamed of me, Harry Potter? _I'm _in Slytherin, and let me tell you now, you're one of us whether you like it or not. So don't even think otherwise."

Ron gulped, eyes rounded and horrified at the sight of the entire entourage of Slytherin first years surrounding him, each looking just as incensed as the next.

"This is just the first night, Weasley," Draco drawled. "Understand some things about pride, loyalty and honour – and just maybe you'll be the Slytherin you're supposed to be."

It was a stunning ending to the start of an alliance. The first signs of Slytherin loyalty had shone through and the first years had banded together.

The formation grinned/smirked at each other.

Draco Malfoy, Daphne Greengrass, Pansy Parkinson, Theodore Nott, Millicent Bulstrode, Blaise Zabini, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. Strangely, their souls momentarily learnt to coexist peacefully and simply _live_. There was no thought about the future, about the inevitable sense of doom that hung over their heads, of the choice each would finally have to make in the coming years, or of anything _evil. _Harry was content. For the next seven years, these would be the players of his court, whether they, or others, liked it or not.

What was it? Perhaps the beginning of a beautiful friendship? The emergence of the deepest betrayal amongst kin? Or simply children who shared sentiments and channelled sarcasm?

No. it was still too early to tell. What was meant to come would come, what was meant to be would be. Destiny, after all, always won.

_-wizardry-_

Surprisingly, the others let Harry choose where to sleep first. A silent look had passed through, from Draco and Zabini, down to Nott, Goyle and Crabbe. It was like a contention of power and without a doubt Harry, who hadn't even bothered to fight for the position, won the place as leader of the dorm.

Nobody could forget what Harry had dropped into his cap.

For Harry, change was eminent. He knew, the instant his head hit the pillow of his bed, the one strategically situated close to the door and the window pane that overlooked murky, shimmering green light, and he fell into a peaceful slumber, that there was no way – no way in _hell _– he was ever going back to the Dursleys, ever, ever again.

_-wizardry-_

Notes:

Okay, I've decided. There will be _some _Weasley bashing, and it will be justified. I do like to see Ron and Harry being friends, but before we get there, both boys need to grow up. Harry needs to start thinking for himself instead of following the cool kids' lead and Ron needs to understand that moral absolutes don't exist.

I sent Ron to Slytherin (something that's probably never happened in any other fanfic where Ron isn't abused/rich/given a different personality) because of two things – First, it maks sense for a kid like Ron, whose always wanted to stand out, be different, and for once accomplish something his brothers have never done to get somewhere different. The Sorting Hat acknowledged that, even when Ron didn't. The other thing is that Ron's fairly judgemental. The only way he can ever learn from his mistakes is by living them. He needs to be taught a lesson about judging people for their background, even if they're rude and snobbish, because in the end everyone here is _eleven._

What the Sorting Hat basically meant was that a boy like Harry wasn't made to blend in. He has always drawn attention, and resents it. If Harry was a Gryffindor, or even Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw, his housemates would most likely worship him, giving him attention he doesn't feel like he's earned. But the Slytherin house never really admired him, and Harry in this house would naturally be forced to adapt and excel for the resentment they hold morph into true respect and admiration. This is the motivation Harry needs to learn and grow.

As for the idea behind the Sword of Gryffindor, I wanted a part of Harry that was still unquestionably and purely Gryffindor. It's in his blood, what with his parents coming from that house. Harry is sent to Slytherin, not because he is more of a Slytherin, which he still is, but because it would benefit him, just as the Sorting Hat recognising the potential for greatness in Harry and bequeathed him Gryffindor's sword.

I'm not sorry if I've offended Hermione fans. She'll get better, just like the book, but like Harry and Ron, both parties need to grow up and learn to think more for themselves before becoming friends.

Next:

First week of school – not every professor is happy with a Slytherin Potter, goblins side with Harry as he fights for his right to keep the Sword of Gryffindor as his own, an encounter with the Headmaster in which many words are shared, and a certain Wizengamot council Harry may or may not decide to storm…

Thanks, again, for all you peeps who've bothered to review. It really does encourage and remind me to write.

Stay tuned!

MaskWithATruth


	6. Chapter the fourth: first year part a

Disclaimer: Not mine.

An apology for taking so long. I got a little carried away with writing and in the end had to cut up my chapter into sections. Really sorry to anyone who protest that eleven-year olds can't be that intelligent or speak in paragraphs. I've been reading Dickens lately, among Wilkie Collins and Steve Toltz's _A Fraction of the Whole _(which by the way is incredible), so I guess their style has sort of rubbed off on me.

Sincerely hoping this chapter won't disappoint.

Chapter the Fourth

the first year

Part a

_I waited for you, for someone, for a bleeding miracle to land itself on the front lawn of Number Four Privet Drive, but nothing came for ten years. _Nothing. _You clearly didn't want me, and to think it took ten years of consideration and self-argument just to get the guts to send me a letter…it makes me wonder how long it'll take before you drop me again._

_-wizardry-_

"There, look."

"He's the one sitting with the Slytherins – the short one wearing the glasses?"

"Have you seen his scar?"

"Have you seen the _Sword?"_

Whispers naturally followed Harry, the instant he and his housemates entered the Great Hall for breakfast. People walked past him, sometimes several times until he'd memorised the faces had almost gotten the entire brief of all the students at school. The way they pointed, whispered, glared, hissed, or followed him only did to amuse his friends and make him sick.

It seemed almost overnight, Harry's notoriety had increased by a tenfold – if defeating the Dark Lord at one, and being the sole survivor of two powerful subsequent Killing Curses hadn't managed to impress the Hogwarts students, then last night's Sorting definitely had. Slytherin house as a whole had stopped subtly sneering at him and now regarded him with neutral, sometimes slightly amused astonishment.

There were a hundred and forty-two staircases at Hogwarts: some wide and sweeping, others decidedly narrow and rather rickety. What was even worse was the fact that they moved whenever they wanted, swinging students meaning to reach one floor onto another. Some even came with a vanishing step halfway up, and it surprised Harry that throughout its thousand-year history, a student had yet to die from falling down the staircases.

Then there were doors that wouldn't open without being asked politely, solid walls with a penchant at _pretending _being doors, portraits that would have helped the first years keep track, if only their subjects didn't move around so often, and suits of armour that hung rather conveniently at every turn which Draco swore could move.

Harry just thought the boy was embarrassed about crashing into one, bringing down himself and several other surrounding students to a grand symphony of loud protesting metal.

The ghosts certainly didn't help either. The Slytherin ghost, Bloody Baron, spent more time underground than above, most of the other ghosts treated the Slytherins with too much distain for their house pride to handle, and after seeing the state of several Gryffindor and Hufflepuff students foolish enough to approach Peeves, the Poltergeist certainly wasn't an option either. There left only Harry and his intuition.

The first class they had was Transfigurations and by the time Harry had discovered that it was _Professor McGonagall _who taught that class, the lot of them had joined him in racing around the school trying to find the classroom, abandoning their breakfasts for the greater good.

It turned out to be the right thing to do, as they were the first to reach their destination and only just on time. Professor McGonagall gave them a neutral look before beginning their lesson.

"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," she said. "Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned."

Then she changed her desk into a pig and back again.

Harry grinned. It was exactly the type of thing he was here to learn. Hermione Granger, unfortunately, had reacted to McGonagall's words with a slight superior look on her face, as if the rest of the students seemed unworthy in her eyes. Of course, nothing she did could ever _not_ include shooting Harry an annoying, better-than-thou look seconds later.

It infuriated Harry to no end. _Like you're so much better than me, Granger. _

"Something you'd like to add, Potter?" McGonagall said sharply, noticing his annoyed expression. She had finished her explanation on transfiguring match into needle and had just instructed the class to start taking down notes, before realizing Harry had yet to move.

Harry scowled. _Merlin, it pays to be famous._

"Not at all, Professor," he answered smoothly, relishing the smug look that had morphed into surprise on Granger's face as he answered the professor's question with ease. "I'm very interested in learning challenging things, and Transfiguration seems like my cup of tea."

Granger gaped. He didn't even need to look at her face to know what she was thinking. Even Professor McGonagall looked sceptical.

"But I just can't help being curious," Harry added, just to spice things up a little (he _had, _after all, promised Snape the action), and putting on his most innocent voice. "Do you suppose the spell used to transfigure furniture into animals, or a match into a needle, is a rather _useful _one?"

McGonagall blinked, as did the rest of the class. Obviously, no one had dared to ask her that before. "It's a spell, Mister Potter," she said tiredly. "Transfiguring furniture into an animal are spells witches and wizards are expected to know eventually."

Granger's worshipping eyes soaked up every one of McGonagall's words before turning round and shooting Harry a rather triumphant look.

"Yes, of course it is. It's like teaching an army how to spell before sending them off into a battlefield. What I'd like to know is why teach it? I can't imagine any instant in my life during which I'll be in need of a needle with only a match and a wand lying around. There's got to be a point as to why you teach that spell here, hasn't there?"

McGonagall nodded stiffly. "There is, Potter," she answered. "As I have already told you, Transfiguration is a difficult subject. The mere _idea _of changing every aspect of an object until it resembles another is a concept students in their first year of studying magic cannot possibly grasp without starting with learning the subtlest of transfigurations. Nearly all first and second year Transfigurations is preparation for our magical training, until we _are _familiar with magic enough to successfully transfigure other things."

Harry nodded. "That makes sense. Our magical core needs training, after all. I suppose not all of us can be expected to learn, oh say the _Patronus charm _by their Fourth Year without being trained to withstand casting simple spells, would they?"

He didn't need to look at Granger to know the girl was furious.

McGonagall seemed amused. "Potter, that particular charm is something even grown wizards have trouble with. Surely you'd expect our students to learn something easier, less ambitious, at least the fundamental aspects of magic first?"

It didn't prove his point, but McGonagall's words surely disproved Granger's. Harry was satisfied enough to send the irritating Gryffindor a rather amused grin, something he'd caught on from Blaise.

The girl looked positively heartbroken.

McGonagall wasn't finished. "Potter, you seem to hold my teachings with contempt. If you are so sceptical of learning simple transfigurations, then surely you wouldn't mind showing us what you can do this lesson?"

Harry gaped along with the rest of the class. _She can't be forcing me to do a spell I've never even learnt before in front of the whole class, can't she?_

Next to him, Draco coughed, nudging him to stand up and make his way to the front of the class. Harry dazedly faced the first years, noting down the observing looks of the Slytherins and the Gryffindors', particularly Hermione Granger's smug smirks.

_Goddamnit, Harry. You survived _two _Killing Curses. A simple wood-to-metal transfiguration surely can't hurt._

He swallowed. "We're waiting, Potter."

_Jeez… summoning brick walls should be harder stuff than this, Harry, and you still managed…_

_Nemmuto postulo!_

Magic spluttered from the tip of his wand and engulfed the watch. For a moment, the class watched, entranced as the match momentarily disappeared, and in its place was a beautifully thin needle. Then, as quick as before, the needle switched back to its original state.

Harry's eyes travelled from the needle that rested on his palm to the astonished look on his classmates' faces, to McGonagall's incredulous expression. And smirked. "That was good enough, I hope?"

The Transfiguration professor stared at him with amazement. "Was that your first attempt at Transfigurations, Potter?"

Harry nodded.

"Yes, I could tell. You were nervous and departed from the conventional way of holding a wand. I've never seen a wizard hold his wand as laxly as you have, Potter. You also completely ignored the wand movement necessary for this spell and didn't even bother _saying _the incantation, Potter. Your lack of perturbation has lost Slytherin five points."

Slytherins gaped, looking at McGonagall in outrage. The Gryffindors, quickly losing their awe, sniggered and smirked at their green and silver counterparts.

"_However," _McGonagall continued, stopping Harry in his place with a piercing stare. "Never, in my entire teaching career, have I ever seen such a student perform a spell as perfectly as you have. Even though you ignored all the fundamental principles of wand-wielding, the end product is amongst the finest product a first year has ever produced on their first attempt. Your silent spell-casting is a feat not many students at Hogwarts can boast. It is something we only attempt to teach at NEWT level here at Hogwarts. In fact, all evidence points to the suggestion that you will be rather proficient at wandless magic, Potter."

Harry stared. In front of him, the Gryffindors and Slytherins both stared and in a rare instance shared a thought.

Professor McGonagall smiled. _Smiled. _"That was incredible, Potter. Forty points to Slytherin house."

As soon as Harry sank back into his chair, he was assaulted at all sides by his Slytherin companions.

"Well done, Potter," Zabini commended. "Knew you had it in you."

"Not bad, Harry," Draco added. "Flint's gonna be thrilled."

"Forty, eh?" Daphne chimed in, "pretty good for the first class."

"Reckon you can hit a hundred by Potions?" Millicent sniggered.

On the other side of the room, a storm was brewing.

"Professor, you haven't let the rest of us try yet!"

Hermione Granger, red in the face with steaming anger, leapt up from her seat, apparently thrown over the edge at Harry's triumph.

McGonagall gave her a look. "Sit down, Miss Granger. I'll be handing matchsticks out in a minute. You'll all get your chance to practice the spell."

Granger was restless. "The rest of us should get the chance to demonstrate in front of the class too!"

Harry rolled his eyes at her words. _Psh. You say it, Granger, as if you know you can beat me._

McGonagall sighed. "Truthfully, Granger, I'd challenged Potter because I wanted to teach him a lesson. It is rare for a first year to grasp a transfiguring spell on their first attempt and he is the exception, not the norm. I hadn't expected the spell to perform as brilliantly as it had."

"It only lasted, what, two seconds," Seamus Finnegan whispered loudly to his neighbour.

"Nevertheless, the intent of the spell had been reached, Mister Finnegan. The match had turned into a needle, and that is something no examiner will argue with when Potter does his OWLS. As for why it didn't last as long, that is not Mister Potter's fault. Being still eleven, his capacity has yet to develop. To achieve a full transfiguration at his age is already commendable."

Commendable. In the end, the Head of Gryffindor was the one to give Harry the biggest compliment anyone had ever given him. Harry's grin was so wide – and perhaps just as innocent – that McGonagall couldn't help but smile back.

Every student in the classroom, Slytherin and Gryffindor alike, stared at him once again, in awe and incredulity.

_McGonagall _of all people had just _smiled _at a _Slytherin._

It was officially decided in the first class of the first day of school by the first year Slytherins and Gryffindors of 1991 that Harry Potter was a miracle worker.

_-wizardry-_

The first lesson felt like a test to Harry, and when McGonagall dismissed them at the end of class only for every Slytherin to turn to _him_ of all people for guidance, he instantly knew he'd passed, with flying colours. He was unofficially the leader of the richest kids in school and part of him still couldn't believe that it'd happened.

It was surreal, having Malfoy and Zabini, both the epitome of arrogance and pride, boys who were brought up to lead the Slytherins, as people who listened to him, and after the first few attempts Harry made at having the power shift back to Draco, who clearly showed he wasn't taking, Harry gave up and accepted the position.

Because sure, Malfoy came from a very wealthy family, and he had the natural confidence and elegance (at times) of a leader, but Harry was _Harry Potter. _He was also an orphan and the only legitimate Potter alive, which gave him full control over the entire Potter fortune, while Draco and Blaise still depended on their parents for spending money. Then there was also the fact that he was the only Slytherin the other houses seemed to…respect. Or most of them did anyway. Malfoy and Zabini came from powerful families that other Slytherins respected. but Harry was the Boy-Who-Lived and no matter where he went, the fact that by eleven he had been the victim of two Killing Curses and survived to tell the story naturally meant that respect and admiration followed him everywhere, something that would probably take saving a Ravenclaw/Gryffindor/Hufflepuff from certain death/mortal peril for any other Slytherin to gain just as much worship.

Unsurprisingly, following their example, the other first year Slytherins stuck to Harry like barnacles to a whale – they surrounded all three-sixty degrees of his tiny frame, looked at him to move first before they did and even stuck up for him when an older Gryffindor had attempted to send him what Daphne had identified as a Tripping Hex.

Needless to say, it hadn't gone well.

The only ones who seemed sort of normal were Draco, whose arrogance was no less diminished in Harry's present, but on the other hand seemed none the less willing for Harry to take over as the unofficial leader of their group, almost as if he had expected the move, Blaise who skilfully displayed enough distain, amusement and awe to seem neutral, walking next to Harry rather than behind or slightly ahead, Parkinson, whose obsession over Draco and choosing to walk next to the blonde rather than the Boy-Who-Lived Harry was beginning to find endearing, and of course Crabbe and Goyle, whose ever-shadowing presence as Draco's bodyguards made them unaware that their groups social hierarchy had slightly shifted to make way for Harry.

Naturally, Ron Weasley tagged along somewhere behind them, knowing there was no one else in Slytherin he'd rather stick to and certainly no other place for him in any other house.

Herbology was good enough. They were required to work in the greenhouses behind the castle three times every week with Sprout, the Head of Hufflepuff. She was nice enough, though the others didn't seem so. Sprout was especially surprised when Harry turned out to be the first person finished with potting his plant (he was at a slight advantage, since most of his housemates protested against even _touching _dirt, much less immersing their fingers into the rich soil, and as such he was awarded ten points for being the lone wolf among the pack that dared to contribute.

"Turning into a bit of a teacher's pet, aren't you, Potter?" Zabini mentioned casually as he stared at his pot of soil with distaste, looking as if he was attempting to will the plant to pot itself.

Harry didn't exactly mention the beam he'd noticed Sprout shoot Neville before awarding the blushing boy _twenty _points. It would counter Zabini's statement, but Harry wasn't exactly the modest type.

As first years, they were required to study the night skies through their telescopes every Wednesday at midnight and learn the names of different stars as well as the movements of the planets. A slight bore at first, until Draco saw fit to mention to him the constellations that made up the Black family tree.

"Andromeda, that's Mother's sister, Cygnus, that's her father…see that constellation there? That's Draco." At Harry's nod and grunt, Draco puffed with pride.

_Jesus. It'll be the stars next. _

It was generally agreed by every student in Hogwarts that History of Magic was the most boring class on the Hogwarts curriculum. Taught by Binns, a ghost with a slight obsession on goblin wars, the class was utilized by Pansy and Daphne as a free nail care session, by Draco and Zabini as the period to catch up on unfinished homework, by everyone else as sleeping time and by Harry as the perfect time to practice his spells. Harry made sure to sit at the back of every class, just in case Granger or the other Gryffindors caught him at it and decided to tell on him.

Charms was by far the best class, not because it was the class he performed best in but because it taught him the most useful spells. Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, was a tiny little wizard who had to stand on a pile of books to see his students, something which Draco and Blaise had sniggered incessantly at.

Naturally, when Flitwick had reached Harry's name on the roll, the tiny wizard had beamed so hard he'd nearly fallen off his stand.

Defense Against the Dark Arts was the class every student in the building was especially looking forward to, especially after Harry's sacking of Quirrell. It had become a class co-hosted between Flitwick, a rumoured Duelling champion back in the day, and Snape the Potions Master who'd had his eye on the job as Defense professor for years. As both of them taught other classes, timetable had to be juggled around and both Charms and Potions were cut back by ten minutes.

Flitwick was nice enough, teaching them very basic duelling positions and hexes. It was the class Harry performed best in – coincidentally the same class Granger performed the worst. Snape had yet to teach them, but Flitwick was kind (and merciful) enough to insist they read the first three chapters of their textbook – and to prepare themselves. Snape's more ruthless attempt had left many second and third years who'd already had the pleasure of having him as their instructor in tears and bruises.

All was well on the first day of school, and by Tuesday lunchtime, Harry had almost convinced himself he'd gotten away with stealing a priceless historical artefact.

Then Albus Dumbledore requested to see him in his office.

News of Harry's thievery had leaked into their ears of the Ministry of Magic, and Pius Thicknesse, on behalf of the Ministry, had arrived at Hogwarts.

_-wizardry-_

The first time Harry had seen the face of Albus Dumbledore was on the Hogwarts Express, during which Ron Weasley had thrown at him the card that came with his chocolate frog.

It wasn't the first instance Harry had heard of him, obviously. But seeing him in the flesh, sitting between McGonagall and Thicknesse, the Ministry envoy, had surprised Harry slightly. He'd expected a powerful face behind the vague image countless words and expressions of awe had conveyed. In its place, however, was an extremely old man with a bazaar fashion sense and, as it seemed with the Headmaster's constant urgings for him to take a lemon drop, a slight obsession with confectionary.

_Okay, _Harry thought, trying but slightly failing to swallow down his incredulity at the genuinely kind face of the man who had left him with the Dursleys, at the reason his life had resembled a living hell for over ten years, and at the man currently twinkling his electric blue-eyes behind a pair of half-moon glasses, looking at Harry with all the reasons to think of him as a grandfather who cared. _Okay. This is certainly unexpected. How am I supposed to hate you, Dumbledore, if you actually seem nice?_

Huh. Next someone would be breaking to him the news that the Dark Lord he was supposedly prophesized to bring down owned a pink pony named Lila.

Nevertheless, Dumbledore surveyed Harry through his half-moon glasses, eyes twinkling through the glass. "Good morning, Harry," he said politely.

Harry coughed. "Morning, sir," he replied, curt but none the less polite.

Dumbledore regarded his face for a moment before saying gently, "Are you sure you wouldn't mind a lemon drop, my boy?"

Harry shivered. _There's just something incredibly wrong about him saying that to me…_"No thank you, Headmaster."

It would have perhaps stretched past dinnertime had the Ministry envoy, Pius Thicknesse not impatiently cut in, "Mister Potter, it has come to the attention of the Ministry of Magic that you are in possession of the Sword of Gryffindor." _I think I've worked that out for myself as well, thanks. _"Unfortunately, the Sword of Gryffindor is an artefact of the school, of which _any_ listed Gryffindor is entitled to. You simply cannot carry it around as your own."

Harry pretended to think it over in his head. There was no way he was giving up such a beauty. Not only did he have one up against the teachers, but it gave him a certain level of power over the Hogwarts students, and judging by the Ministry's haste to send someone to quell him, the Ministry of Magic too, both of which being a mere Boy-Who-Lived couldn't possibly achieve. The fact that everyone seemed so desperately keen to keep it only made Harry suspect the Sword really _was _a lot more valuable than just any other sword. And besides, a Dark Lord with a thirst for vengeance still happened to be after him with ten years' worth of humiliation and having failed at killing him _twice. _Who knew what was up the man's sleeve? Being only eleven, surely he deserved _some _form of protection at the least.

"The Sorting Hat gave the sword to me, sir," Harry said calmly. "It didn't protest when I took it out and it sure didn't protest when I kept it for myself."

The Sorting Hat was placed conveniently on a shelf behind the Headmaster's desk. Perhaps it had been there with the intention of being used as a last hope in the effort to convince Harry Potter that the Sword of Gryffindor wasn't his, but its current reign of silence made it difficult to interpret the Hat's opinion into any degree of outrage.

"Actually, Mister Potter, you'll find that Gryffindor's sword answers to _any_ Gryffindor, as _all _have the ability to pull it out of the Sorting Hat," Thicknesse rebuked coldly. "It is a treasured artefact, not a possession. And should it ever be_, _you would not have sole claim to it. If every student who could pull the sword out of the hat decided it was theirs, then surely even _you _can imagine what a crisis we would have on our hands."

"And have they?"

Thicknesse blinked, rather uncharacteristically.

"Have they _what, _Mister Potter?"

"_Have _any Gryffindors before me pulled that thing out of a hat then asked to keep it?" Harry clarified. "You've said that they _could – _but _have any Gryffindors ever actually gone back to the Sorting Hat after they were Sorted, with the intention of pulling Godric Gryffindor's sword out of it?"_

Stunned silence greeted the three adults, as each processed the Boy-Who-Lived's words with surprise.

"Did you even bother asking the Sorting Hat why it gave it to me?" Harry continued. "I pulled out that goddamned sword because the Hat told me I'd need it for strength. In case you've forgotten, the Dark Lord tried to murder me when I was one and again last month at Gringotts. Defending myself against him _might _just require strength, so until I defeat your Dark Lord, I think I'll keep it rather."

Harry mightn't be the smartest kid in the castle, but years of talking his way out of fights had inevitably curbed his tongue. He was a seasoned verbal fighter, despite what Thicknesse and Dumbledore clearly thought. With the exception of McGonagall who had the luck of teaching the boy first (and judging by the tired expression on her face had clearly expected Harry to say something), the room was left in a general state of utter surprise. Pius Thicknesse, above all other emotion, was completely shocked. Had he expected a nervous, unsure or hesitant Boy-Who-Lived, overwhelmed by his popularity and more brawn then brains, he was clearly out of luck.

Perhaps it also had something to do with Harry declaring he was going to defeat the Dark Lord. Not your usual eleven-year old's statement.

Seeing as no one seemed up for the task of stopping him, Harry stood up to leave, feeling rather accomplished at having walked out of a meeting with the three most powerful people in the school unscathed and detentionless, house points intact and relatively unaffected. Talking his way out of fights in primary school had been one thing, but the people he talked to were often too dumb to fully understand what he was trying to say. Speaking back to strong, intelligent, powerful people who actually understood what he was going on about? That was more like it. He quite liked the feeling; it made getting into trouble all the more fun.

Leaving would have worked, had the door leading out of the headmaster's office not been locked. Harry inwardly groaned.

"Mister Potter," Dumbledore pleaded solemnly, "think this over rationally. Should you continue parading around the school in Slytherin robes and with Gryffindor's sword in your possession, it would seen as extremely disrespectful to the Founders of this school, as well as its students. Never before has a student in _Slytherin _house taken _Gryffindor's _sword."

_Huh. _Harry could almost hear the awe and distaste in that last part.

"You know Headmaster," Harry said casually as he leant forward to pet, "I knew, even before I got on the train, that the rivalry between Gryffindors and Slytherins is _deadly _but I never expected Hogwarts' own Gryffindor Headmaster to join the freaking bandwagon of house prejudice."

Every professor looked at him in surprise – and slight incredulity.

"A Slytherin carrying Gryffindor's sword – you only see it as disrespect the way you want it to be seen. Gryffindor's memory and his prized possession both tarnished in the hands of a Slytherin. The Slytherins see it as a joke – just another reason why our house is better than the others. But you know what? No one asked me what _I _thought of the whole thing, as usual. What if I simply took it at the Hat's recommendations because it told me I'd need it? What if I'm not trying to state anything by keeping it, other than the fact that a Slytherin _can _own something of Gryffindor's? Is it so impossible for even _you _to imagine that Slytherins and Gryffindors _can _coexist and _are _in fact that same species of human beings, and that the world might even be bigger than just to two damn houses?"

"That is enough, Harry," Dumbledore said sharply, breaking into his tirade just as it drew to an end and raising his voice for the first time since Harry had entered his office to do it. "You were not invited here to start a quarrel, and while I agree that the feud between Slytherin and Gryffindor has continued on for far too long, you and I both know that it takes far more than just one person's voice to end it."

"Quite right," Thicknesse spoke up indignantly. "Mister Potter, if you are _quite _done, I must ask you to hand over the Sword of Gryffindor, unless you actually hold _legitimate _claim over the artefact."

_Legitimate claim, eh? _"Oh yeah? The bloody hat gave, handed over, bequeathed, your founder's freaking sword to _me_. Is that legitimate enough for you?"

And, because Harry loved the sound of silence, he couldn't help up add more. "I'm not a Gryffindor by Sorting – I think the general rumour circulating around _that _would be the fact that I'm a Gryffindor, by _blood." _Harry grinned wickedly. "Haven't you heard, sir? Apparently, the Sword of Gryffindor's _mine and solely mine _because I'm Gryffindor's _heir._"

His words were, as usual, met with silence. And dread. McGonagall's eyes rotated up to stare, painfully, at the ceiling art. Thicknesse, whose headache seemed to still hound his fragile nerves, had resorted to furiously massaging his temples, out of both fear and irritation. And Dumbledore, with contemplative eyes that stayed glued to Harry's face, shook his head in thought.

Harry was experiencing the unfortunate feeling of being x-rayed by Dumbledore's eyes. He shivered, then turned to stare at Dumbledore's phoenix reclining behind them.

"Mr Potter," McGonagall spluttered, utterly perplexed with what to do with him. "That – _Gryffindor's heir –"_

Harry shrugged. "Just passing on the rumour, of course. If it pleases you professor, I'll even brush up on my heritage roots and see if I can trace the Potters back to -"

"Enough, Harry," Dumbledore sharply interrupted.

"Gryffindor's heir," Thicknesse muttered bitterly, suddenly finding the confidence to reject that idea at the sound of Dumbledore's irritation. "Should _that _rumour ever fixate itself in your brain, Mister Potter, then let me remind you of the obvious fact that you, you see, happen to be a _Slytherin."_

The Ministry envoy looked at Harry triumphantly, his firm logic backed by the approval of both McGonagall _and _Dumbledore.

"Get the delusion out of your head, Potter," McGonagall added. "The Potters may be distantly related to Gryffindor, but it is highly unlikely that _you, _a _Slytherin _of all people would turn out to be his heir."

_Not be his heir? I'm the Boy-Who-Lived-_Twice_._ _The Sorting Hat gave me Gryffindor's bloody sword. I'm undoubtedly the most powerful kid in my grade. How can you think otherwise?_

Harry, instead, swallowed the contempt rising up his throat at the sound of his favourite teacher and grinned. "You obviously haven't heard the latest rumour then, Professor." He leaned in conspiratorially. "It's possible to be the Heir of Gryffindor and still be Sorted into Slytherin, you know. I mean, how can you be so sure I'm not also the Heir of_ Slytherin?"_

The stunned silence of which he manoeuvred to give him the perfect chance of escape had all three professors staring at him in utter shock. Clearly no one had _ever _said anything even _remotely _similar to what Harry had dared to imply. It felt good, knowing what remained in the Headmaster's office was a catastrophe.

Pius Thicknesse, obnoxious Ministry employee, was left reeling and McGonagall couldn't be more stunned.

Albus Dumbledore, however, was many things. Headmaster of Hogwarts, Defeater of Grindelwald, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, even the owner of a floor-length beard, but stupid just wasn't one of them. He briefly pinched the tip of his nose, before readying his quill for battle.

Time to call in the reinforcements.

_-wizardry-_

Wednesday soon came, and with it the inevitable Gryffindor Accostation, led by Percy Weasley, Oliver Wood as well as several other Gryffindors.

The group made their way to Harry's table during breakfast, and after a not-so-discreet nudging from Daphne, they stood up to leave for class, not wanting to be caught in a confrontation with older students who clearly hated them and knew more spells than they did. Ron Weasley, not wanting to be left behind to face the first confrontation with his brothers since his Sorting, joined them.

The Gryffindors, however, were a lot more determined than that.

After a very intricate game of cat and mouse which lasted most of the morning, they finally managed to corner the Slytherins down the corridor outside the Defence classroom.

"Harry, mate!" The Weasley twins chorused loudly, swinging their arms across either side of Harry's shoulders. "How is our beloved Boy-Who-Lived liking Hogwarts so far?"

"Nothing too overwhelming, we hope?"

Harry wasn't blind. He saw the smugness on the pair's faces, knowing they weren't about to let the opportunity of showing up the Slytherins pass –they wanted to prove to every Gryffindor, Slytherin and any other student who had the misfortune of frequenting the Defence Hallway (which coincidentally turned out to be a rather popular route to the Great Hall) that they _clearly _knew Harry better – and that Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the owner of Godric Gryffindor's sword, a _Potter, _was obviously one of them.

Behind them, Harry heard the distinct sound of Daphne's impatient sigh, Zabini's slight cough and Millicent's snort. He wasn't stupid – he'd stuck to Slytherin to gain their respect and command, but it'd take just a stupid move with the Gryffindors to lose it completely. And that, definitely, wasn't good.

"Fred, George," he acknowledged, distinctly remembering his previous desire to know the two and deserve their respect merely days earlier. They were kind, had helped him on the Hogwarts Express after all, and their company certainly wasn't dreaded. On the other hand, here they were, seeking him out with little intention of actually wanting to know him, but rather manoeuvred him as just another chess piece in the ongoing house rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin.

"What we want to know," the twins insisted.

"Is what you're doing with _them –"_

"- when it's clear you should be with _us –"_

"–the Gryffindors."

The whole of the Gryffindor entourage seemed mighty pleased at this simple assessment and Harry couldn't help but blink. _Merlin, are these people stupid? _"I don't know," he said slowly, pretending to seem naïve and unsure, "the Sorting Hat _did _Sort me into Slytherin last night."

"What my brothers are trying to say," Percy Weasley, who stepped forward and conveniently allowed what little light there was in the Defence Hallway to shine onto his Prefect badge (and consequently puffed in pride as the polished surface temporarily blinded the Slytherins, a rather effective offensive strategy if that was what the Gryffindor aimed for), and said in a voice that truly believed he was enlightening the world with the answer to the universe, "is that you don't _belong _with Slytherin, Harry Potter."

"You know, Percy," Harry found himself saying in a rather confident voice (for a first year Slytherin speaking to a crowd of intimidating older Gryffindors at least), "sometimes there's more to life than being a prefect."

There came a silence. Clearly, judging by the sudden bloom of red on Percy Weasley's cheeks, no one had even _thought _of suggesting something as heretic as the idea that being Prefect _didn't _mean being the guiding light for the world, to him. Moreover, no one expected _Harry Potter _to bring it up in the middle of an argument as something that seemed, no doubt, totally irrelevant.

Percy opened his mouth, no doubt to give Harry a month's detention and/or take away one hundred house points.

"When was the last time," Harry continued, stealing Percy's chance of dishing him punishment, "you talked to any of your housemates as an equal? The last time you hung out with them at all? Or when you shared a laugh with them over some silly story? When was the last time you bothered acting as a _decent human being_ instead of our answer to world peace?"

Some Slytherins sniggered. Most stayed silent, as did the Gryffindors. They were simply confused as to what to do – Harry had strayed into personal territory, moving away from house rivalry into a seemingly random conversation topic. Percy Weasley, on the other hand, was furious.

"Maybe I _care _about my future, Potter," he snarled, "maybe my future career paths _matter _to me."

"And _maybe," _Harry added, smirking, "all I'm trying to say is that _you _don't belong in _Gryffindor, Percy Weasley."_

The crowd watched on, some seeming genuinely impressed. Harry couldn't help smirking, relishing in his victory. _Your words right back at you, Percy._

Percy was incensed at being defeated, but the Gryffindors, to their credit, were more desperate than proud. They stood defiantly as Harry attempted to walk past them.

"Come on, Harry, you're better than that," the Weasley twins continued, their friendly façade slackening as they attempted to continue with the act.

"What would your parents say?"

"_They _were in Gryffindor, you know."

"They'd turn in their graves if -"

"– they knew you were in Slytherin."

Harry clenched his jaw. "I don't know what delusion your parents have you Weasleys under," he said, adopting a rather bored tone, "but _I _was told the Sorting Hat sorted _you _on your first day of school_, _not your parents. So unless there's more to the Sorting Hat than what the rest of us have thought for the past thousand years, I'd rethink and go over what you're attempting to say."

The Slytherins laughed. Again. Harry was vaguely aware of the fact that the Weasley twins weren't embarrassed often. Even Ron seized the rare opportunity and coughed out amusement.

Unfortunately for him, his brothers had heard. Perhaps converting Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived had held more weight in their minds than the devastating results of their own brother's Sorting (which Harry found rather sad), but for the first time, the twins saw their youngest brother – and which side he stood with.

The Weasley twins sniggered. "Well, well, ickle Ronniekins."

"Looks like you're the –"

"–slimy snake we always –"

"-knew you'd turn out to be."

Ron looked incensed. Gryffindors and Slytherins alike just watch his humiliation in silence, Gryffindors with amusement and Slytherins in cold observation, awaiting his next move which, naturally, would directly affect their estimation of him.

The Slytherins were sorely disappointed – Ron only looked down in submission, and his lack of defence against his own brothers' words marked yet another strike against his name. Harry, with slight irritation at the Weasleys altogether, stepped forward and decided to help out him out anyway, even if it was with the slight hope that the boy would actually get over himself and learn to respect his house-mates, no matter how little that respect rounded up to be.

"I'd be more careful of what I say, Weasleys," he said quietly, startling the general population as usual. _"I'm _in Slytherin, and I won't watch you bring down my house. So just leave it and live with the fact that every year for the last thousand years, a quarter of the first years _have _been sorted into this house."

All four Weasleys watched him, Ron out of fear – he was still a Weasley and part of him knew Harry had addressed him too – Percy and the twins torn between wanting to humiliate a first year and respecting his audacity as the Boy-Who-Lived. In the end, pride wore through. It just wasn't _right _for the fearless third-years to even _contemplate _the words of as first year Slytherin.

"Yeah, you're a _Slytherin, _Harry," one, Fred perhaps, said irritably.

"But you're also clearly a _Gryffindor," _the other, George then, finished smugly.

_Jesus Christ, what sort of logic _is_ this?_

The others just watched avidly at the argument slowly forming, perhaps wondering what Harry had up his sleeve next.

They weren't disappointed.

"It's funny," Harry drawled, "I don't exactly remember being Sorted into Gryffindor _as well as _Slytherin. Experiencing hallucinations, are we? Your mother put something in her corned beef sandwiches she didn't tell you about?"

Naturally, the Slytherins sniggered. Harry smirked at the sight of a familiar red creeping up the neck of all three Weasleys. It was low, he knew, but so was their attack on Slytherin house. Now was not the time to think about what was right - now was the time to solidify his right in Slytherin by gaining their approval.

"At least our parents are still _alive_," Ron Weasley snapped.

_Psh. There goes my wishful thinking. Looks like Ron's a Weasley through and through. _ Harry stared at him. "Ron," he said calmly, "my parents _sacrificed _their _lives _in the face of evil for _your _happiness and their death is the only reason I'm even alive. The fact that they aren't in the realm of the living is something I'm _proud _of. So what if your parents are still alive? _At least _I can say with full confidence that I _know _my parents would gladly die for _me. At least _my parents have _done something _for the welfare of the Wizarding World. Can your parents say the same?"

"As a matter of fact, Potter," Percy Weasley spoke up, rather embarrassed, "our father works for the Ministry of Magic."

"Of course, the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office," Draco piped up, suddenly reminding Harry of the Slytherins that stood behind him. "Isn't that right?"

The Weasleys nodded, slightly confused. The rest of the Slytherins seemed to see where this was going, but Harry's lack of understanding about the structure of the Ministry of Magic forced him to blindly rely on Malfoy not to backstab him.

_Note to self: Read up/ask Draco for detailed explanation of magical government._

"A grand total of _two _people work in Misuse of Muggle Artefacts," Draco continued. "Not a very important chap your father, is he?"

Cue laughter. Pansy Parkinson, at the sight of her Drakie-poo rubbing the salt into the Gryffindor's wounds, naturally had to be the loudest. Harry found himself staying largely silent, not really liking the argument Malfoy was giving but hardly finding it the right time to speak out.

"I wouldn't be so smug if I were you, Malfoy," an anonymous Gryffindor, surprisingly one of a scarce kind that were Gryffindors but _not _Weasley, said darkly. "Your father's a _Death Eater!"_

Death Eater. The phrase sent shivers up Harry's back and that instant, Draco's face turned a horrified ashen white Harry was quite sure even corpses would have trouble emulating.

"You – shut _up," _the usually composed boy hissed, horrified eyes on Harry as he addressed the Gryffindor.

Well. Harry supposed he'd better help out his friend. "Not a very nice name to call one's father, is it?" The others stared expectantly at him. "So his father eats death. And I'd _still _prefer his company over the lot of you."

The entire assembly of students stared at Harry with incredulity. He didn't need to turn his head to know the people behind him were doing the same. The Gryffindor who had spoken up looked like Harry just announced he was _the Dark Lord himself_ in disguise.

"And _what, _may I ask, is going on here?"

Every person in the hallway suddenly stiffened and turned to face a scowling Snape, accompanied by Hermione Granger of all people.

It wasn't difficult to work out what had happened.

This was, surprisingly, the first sight Harry had had of Snape since the bitter man had led him into Diagon Alley. Snape had been conveniently missing at the Sorting and feast, and clearly wasn't bothered with confronting Harry somewhere around the castle on the days before. Snape walked forward, in an almost dazed appearance taking in the Slytherin emblem stitched onto Harry's robes.

Bitter beetle black met the unrelenting green. Momentarily, there came pensiveness. Then Snape sneered. "A _Potter_ in Slytherin? I don't believe there has been one for centuries."

Harry swallowed. It was one thing for the Weasleys to frown at his Sorting, but his own Head of House? The very man who had earned Harry's respect and admiration when he'd defeated the Dursleys and gave Harry his first glance of the Wizarding World? How could the same man who had tried so hard for Harry to accept Hogwarts suddenly reject him? Harry didn't say anything – because he just couldn't think of anything to say.

"What would your father say, I wonder Potter?"

Harry's fists clenched, his previous helplessness suddenly evaporated. _Calm down. Don't let him get to you. _Ignoring Granger's annoyingly sympathetic look, he swallowed the rising anger and settled with answering in a calm tone. "My father would be proud of me, whichever house I'm in."

If anything, his words only did to anger the man even more. Snape, his face momentarily contorted to pure, utter rage, seemed on the brink of cursing Harry with the Cruciatus curse (and Harry swore he saw the man's right hand twitch for his wand), when suddenly he whirled round and entered the Defense classroom, slamming the door shut in a stunning conclusion.

It was enough to snap the lingering students back into their places and with all the determination of the world, Harry angrily treaded past the Gryffindors, making sure to send the Weasley twins the darkest glare he could muster.

This time, no one was stupid enough to stop him.

_-wizardry-_

Later, Harry would ponder the possibility of Snape having a multiple personality disorder all the way to the dungeons for the Slytherins' first potions lesson of the year.

Snape's classroom had an eerie taste to it, the type that forced you to stay awake and acknowledge the pickled animals floating in glass jars all around the walls. Harry, after a period of observation, noticed that every Gryffindor entered the classroom with terror and anxiety frozen on their face, only to relax slightly a the sight of an absent professor.

Minutes later, Snape began the lesson by entering the classroom dramatically, forcing his students to acknowledge his intimidating presence. Almost immediately and as if on instinct, the backs of every student in the room, including Harry's, suddenly straightened themselves, forming a perfect ninety-degree angle with their laps.

Snape wasted no time in getting started, marking the roll at a pace comparable to the speed of the light. Naturally, when he reached Harry's name, he paused.

"Ah, yes," he said softly, "Harry Potter."

This was, naturally, only one of the many betrayals Harry Potter would have to face in his lifetime. For now, Snape, the hero and ally who had stood up against the Dursleys, the only one who had cared enough to see Harry take up his legacy and the father figure Harry had hoped to have, had dented Harry's pride and betrayed his expectations. He hated the sight of Harry in his house and even acted as if their previous meetings, first in Diagon Alley, then down the Defense Hallway, _hadn't even occurred. _The disappointment Harry felt had been so great and he knew, instantly, that he was _not _about to let it go without giving the class a worthy fight.

Knowing this was Snape of all people, he'd naturally spent half an hour every night since Diagon Alley reading up on his Potions.

It was with confidence and self-reassurance, therefore, that Harry managed to sit back and give Snape a look.

Snape's eyes narrowed at him suspiciously, obviously not satisfied with his lax behavior.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he began, speaking in barely more than a whisper. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses…I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death - if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

More silence followed this speech. Hermione Granger was naturally on the edge of her seat and looked desperate to start proving that she wasn't a dunderhead. Harry, Draco and Blaise shared a look and sniggered.

"Mister Potter. Being so _mighty_ self-assured of your talent in Potions-making, please enlighten the class with your vast knowledge. What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Harry blinked, along with the rest of the class with the exception of Hermione Granger, who seemed to salivate at the idea of her knowing something he didn't. _"Professor, _you do realize this is only the first class? You haven't even started teaching yet, and while I _am _rather self-assured of my many talents -"

"Where, Potter, would I look to find a bezoar?" Snape's lip was curled in barely concealed glee with the chance of embarrassing Harry.

_What? _Harry shrugged. "Probably the local Apothecary. Or even more likely, Potions cupboard. You're the Potions Master, professor. Surely you'd have one in your pocket just to come in handy in case anyone's poisoned enough to deserve a bezoar being shoved down their throat as an antidote," he stalled, thinking quickly to the part about goat anatomy he'd skimmed over two nights ago. "Unless, of course, you follow what it says on chapter seven of our textbooks and prefer the old-fashioned way of getting potions ingredients and actually cut open the stomach of a _goat _for one of those stones."

The entire classroom of students stared at him in astonishment. Harry Potter answering a question wasn't something to amaze over, but a question set by the cruelest teacher in the castle hell-bent on hating him, a question specifically selected to trick the boy into stammering submission? Sure, Harry's magical resources were somewhat legendary, but he hadn't beaten You-Know-Who with his tremendous intellect.

Snape meanwhile watched him with unreadable eyes. Even Granger's hand had dropped, albeit reluctantly, back to Earth.

"What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

For an instant, Harry wondered how long the quizzing was going to last, and when Snape would finally give it up already. He hadn't bothered reading his Potions textbooks for weeks for nothing.

"The name, _obviously."_ Laughter for the Gryffindors unexpectedly filled the cold classroom. It didn't help that Harry had said it in a tone and with a matching expression that made his answer sound like he had just answered the stupidest question anyone had ever dared to ask. The Slytherins, meanwhile, were smart enough to stay silent and smirk. "And just so you know, asphodel and wormwood make sleeping potions. Powerful enough to be called the Draught of Living Death."

At the sight of Harry's innocently expression and the open amusement of the Gryffindors, Snape suddenly paled, eyes shutting for a split second before opening them to reveal utter fury.

"Silence!" He shouted.

Silence came. Harry bit the side of his cheek to keep himself from sniggering. _You really dislike being mocked, don't you Snape?_

"One point, Potter, for taking so long to answer the first question, _two _points for lack of respect," he hissed. "The next person who attempts to act cheeky in this class _will_ lose twenty points for their house and report to a week's detention, to _me."_

Another peek at Snape's face proved that the Slytherins for once weren't excluded.

"Now get to work. And not another sound, from _anyone."_

Naturally, when Neville Longbottom finally managed to melt Seamus Finnegan's cauldron, Harry had been the one to lose the promised twenty points.

_-wizardry-_

The incident which really tipped the iceberg occurred at the time of day in which every student of Hogwarts hauled themselves up in the morning for, whether it was breakfast or the morning post.

An impromptu orchestra of shrieks sounded as owls of all colours and dimensions swooped over the heads of their owners. Harry's snowy owl was noted by no less than seven students to have flown in among the pack. (As for how they knew it was his, it involved information none saw fit to disclose.)

Hedwig greeted her owner over his bacon and eggs with a gentle hoot, plonking a thin letter onto his napkin.

"What's it say, Potter?" Draco asked curiously.

_**H**__arry __**J**__a_me_s Pot_**t**e_r_

_Ho_**g**w_ar__**t**__s S__**c**__hool of _**W**_itc_h**c**r_aft __**a**__nd Wi_za**r**_dry_

Harry snorted. _Well, aren't they precise? _He ripped the letter open without a second thought. Inside were three thin sheets of cheap-looking parchment, filled with cramped-up words dictated using a quill with ink that made Harry feel as if the person wanted to make the most out of every drop. The thinness of the writing made him feel almost as if the writer _was _using the last drop.

_Dear Harry,_

_You do not know me, but I have known you your entire life, starting from barely three weeks after you were conceived. _

Harry's eyebrows raised slightly. It was obvious the writer wanted to create a sense of familiarity with Harry and to assure him of his authenticity, but Harry _didn't _know them, they'd said it themselves – the only thing the sender had managed to do was establish himself in Harry's mind as a stalker.

_Dear Harry,_

_You do not know me, but I have known you your entire life, starting from barely three weeks after you were conceived. My name is Remus Lupin and your father was my best friend._

_Perhaps you're wondering why I've never tried to contact you earlier, this entire time you've been living with your relatives. It was for the best of everyone's business that I left you alone. I was told that you were placed into the care of relatives and Dumbledore assured me that it would be better for you to grow up in a magic-free environment. You got the childhood you deserved, Harry. With relatives who love you, brought up in a world where you were happy and had no idea who you really are._

_It shames me every day to know that I was free to ask Dumbledore for your address but could never bring myself to do it. It was only after knowing you were in Hogwarts, knowing your life in the Wizarding world had finally begun, that I forced myself to get over my insecurities and finally write to you._

_Your father was my best friend, ever since our first year at Hogwarts. I remember feeling the joy James felt as he held you in his arms and showed you to me. All I could think of was how you looked just like him, even though at infancy. The day I picked up the Daily Prophet to find your face plastered all over it, it took me little more than seconds to realize how alike him you are. You have his nerve, Harry, his courage, his daring, pure spirit, and that is how I know you must have brought on the tradition and gotten into Gryffindor too. Imagining you now, I can most certainly picture you being the mirror image of your father, in every way…_

Ugh. Harry slammed the letter face down on the table in horror. _What is this – emotional blackmail?_

"Harry?" Pansy said, slightly concerned. "Are you alright?"

The truth was Remus Lupin hadn't done anything to him. He'd admitted as much in the letter. Unlike Dumbledore who'd handed him off to the Muggles thinking it was the right thing to do, Lupin had felt the guilt and remorse. Over the fact that Harry was his best friend's son or that he was a child being sent to live with Muggles, Harry didn't know.

Why on earth had it taken him so incredibly long just to get over himself and send the orphaned kid an 'I exist' card? The behaviour kind of reminded him of Dumbledore's. The letter had obviously tried to establish the fact that Remus Lupin had justification and therefore was not to blame for hiding his existence for ten years.

Obviously the letter was personal, Harry knew, as he watched the flimsy parchment being passed round to his surrounding classmates as they gawked and scoffed. Lupin had tried his best to establish himself as a very close family friend who wasn't afraid to show his weaknesses. Had he done so before Harry had met Dumbledore, had Harry actually been Sorted into Gryffindor, there might have been a very different outcome to the same thing. But the problem was, Harry _hated _being seen as weak and _hated _the fact that yet another member of the Wizarding world had jumped on the bandwagon of wanting Harry in Gryffindor.

And then there was the other part, the reason Harry why had passed the letter to his friends…why now, after ten long years of prolonged drought? Just what did Remus Lupin _want?_

"Well, it's obvious," Daphne said snootily. "Just look at the parchment he's writing on. Look as his ink – or lack of. The man's poor, utterly poor. He must be desperate for money."

"But it doesn't explain why he hasn't bothered with me for the first eleven years of my life, does it?"

"Unless it was only recently that he found himself in some trouble," Blaise mused.

Draco snorted. "Oh, come on, Zabini," Draco said, "you and I both know – rich people who suddenly get poor don't just instantly write with toilet-paper parchment or use diluted ink. They expect to get rich again and until that happens, they just _don't _act poor. I mean, if _I _lost _my _money, I certainly wouldn't try to make it show, especially if I'm writing to the Boy-Who-Lived of all people. No one wants to actually _seem _poor."

Nearby, Ron clenched his fists.

"Maybe he's actually just a poor man who happened to be friends with James Potter and wants to see how his son is faring," Nott added.

There came a pause. Then everyone snorted.

"Don't be stupid, Nott," Draco said condescendingly, "the bloke's had ten years to make a move. Unless he hit his head sometime before Halloween 1981, got amnesia and only _just _recovered, he just can't not have an ulterior move."

"And besides," Pansy added gleefully, "he's _dirt-poor _and Potter's anything _but, _I think that speaks for itself."

"Or _maybe_," Ron Weasley burst out angrily, for the first time adding his worth, "the man just _doesn't have any money."_

It silenced them instantly.

"Merlin, is it a crime to be poor?"

No one could bring themselves up to say anything

_-wizardry-_

The truth was, Harry just didn't know what to believe.

Just what _took_ Remus Lupin so extraordinarily long to write to him?

And then there was the constant referral to Harry's father. It was as if mentioning him was the one thing Remus knew was safe to talk about. It made him seem like he was trying too hard to get Harry to like him. There was virtually nothing in there mentioned about Remus Lupin himself, just praise after praise.

Then there was the flip side of the coin. What if, just what if Remus Lupin truly was just a poor, cowardly man who cared about Harry's wellbeing? The fact was that hearing his father being discussed on paper secretly delighted him, even though it was slightly creepy, and it almost made him feel as if Lupin knew what he was doing when he blabbered on with words Harry wanted to hear.

_Who are you, Remus Lupin? Are you friend or foe? Should I heed you or warmly welcome you into my arms as if you'd always belonged there? Is it the Slytherin paranoia that is rubbing off on me or do you really deserve a reply?_

He sighed, reaching for his bag for quill and parchment. Then stopped. _Maybe I'll consider it, Lupin. Ten years later. So what if you're in desperate need of money, so what if you knew my father? So does Snape. I waited for you, for someone, for a bleeding miracle to land itself on the front lawn of Number Four Privet Drive, but nothing came for ten years. _Nothing. _You clearly didn't want me, and to think it took ten years of consideration and self-argument just to get the guts to send me a letter…it makes me wonder how long it'll take before you drop me again. I'm betting less than ten years._

His mind was resolute: he folded up the unfinished letter roughly before stuffing it to the very bottom of his bag, vaguely aware of the Headmaster's unmoving figure as he stared down omnisciently at Harry. Harry tilted his head, catching Dumbledore's eye. Just as he'd predicted, the man looked intently curious. _You're way too interested in my life, old man. Who knows, maybe you were the one who orchestrated the entire thing in the first place._

The more Harry considered it, the more it seemed to make sense, and it made Harry even madder at Dumbledore than he had been the night before. Being condescending was one thing, but trying to emotionally blackmail someone and manipulating them into getting your way was entirely out of line.

It gave Harry enough strength to give the contents of his bag another rough shove. His classmates looked at him curiously. He shrugged.

Then came the Grand Finale.

The letter from Gringotts arrived.

_-wizardry-_

This time, a majestic, grey owl delivered it, swooping down from the now owlless sky (fashionably late) and landing majestically beside Harry's right arm. Breakfast was on the brink of ending and as such, the late deliverance had caused the majority of students to focus their attention on the Boy-Who-Lived.

_Harry J. Potter_

_Middle of the Slytherin Table_

_The Great Hall_

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

Harry blinked.

Zabini let out a low whistle at the insignia that screamed authority and prestige. Pansy and Daphne fretted over the unmoving owl. There couldn't be a larger contrast between the two letters Harry had received in the span of minutes.

And so he read.

Then grinned.

He looked up again, and sure enough, there was Dumbledore's unreadable face that stared in his direction. Harry took off his cap and mock-bowed at his Headmaster, causing his housemates to burst into laughter at his rather random behaviour. By then, Dumbledore's face had turned away but the message couldn't be simpler – he _was _going to keep the Sword of Gryffindor. And the goblins were going to help him.

_-wizardry-_

Notes:

My intended portrayal of McGonagall was to make her as realistic as possible. I saw her as someone fair, critical but acknowledges greatness. She teaches the Slytherins and Gryffindors here in this fic, and manages to keep the peace in the classroom by remaining neutral – she critisizes Harry so that the Gryffindors don't feel missed out, but then highly compliments him to give the Slytherins their due. She's also conscious of the fact that Harry's a fairly powerful wizard, and challenging him in the first class wasn't because she contemptuous with Harry being in Slytherin but because she actually wanted to see what the he was capable of, not that she'd ever admit it.

For anyone I lost on the part with McGonagall, think back to last chapter, in which Harry fully insulted Hermione's entire reason for _being _by stating he's not learning for the sake of learning, like she is, but for the sake of living. He won't survive, he'll live. Asking McGonagall was to prove he wasn't going against his words and that he meant what he said to Hermione the day before. McGonagall didn't really prove his words, but it gave his education more of a meaning and most of all discredited what Hermione believed. Harry's understanding the point in learning how to transfigure matchsticks - that the spell prepared him for something bigger, lessons he'd need to know as he got older.

As for Snape…he's mad that Harry hasn't turned out to be what he'd hoped James Potter's son would be. He also highly dislikes change. For eleven years, he's resented Harry for being the combined spawn of his crush and enemy, for being a baby that did nothing to earn himself the title Boy-Who-Lived and just another arrogant kid without any real power. Snape, obviously, hates being wrong, or being forced to acknowledge and/or accept change. He's beginning to see the error of his ways but he isn't about to voice his apologies anytime soon.

Dumbledore took the longest to get right. I want him to stay in character, truly eager to 'help' the Boy-Who-Lived, but not realising the negative impacts of his actions until they're too late. In this chapter, Dumbledore's supposed to remain just as he was in the book, but if he seems slightly more prejudiced, just remember that Harry is a lot bitterer in this fic, what with knowing it was Dumbledore who placed him with the Dursleys a lot earlier than fifth year, as well as more determined to do well, what with knowing Snape beforehand and the standard they expected of him (slaying a certain Dark Lord one of these days), and then making friends with the Slytherins, none of whom seem very impressed with their headmaster, so naturally he'd be more able to catch Dumbledore at it than the canon Harry.

As for Remus, I've always seen him as a coward. I hate how he hides the fact that he's a werewolf. It's his _identity, _and the idea that he spends his entire life trying to ignore who he is, hating himself and pretending to be _human _which is futile just really disgusts me. Sure, werewolves are considered sub-human, but that didn't stop Hagrid, or Flitwick, or Fleur. Remus needs to realise that being a werewolf is just who he is and it's not changing, ever, and that the people who mind don't matter – the people who do matter don't mind. On the other side of the coin, he _is _a werewolf. Unlike the others, he was born human and some have even pointed out to me that being werewolf is like having a disability, it's not something that _can _be dealt with easily. I apologise for people who took offence, but there have been many disabled people, physically or mentally, who have challenged their personal (and external) demons and won. So many examples. These people don't have to be well off, they only needed faith and perseverance. Lupin on the other hand has some things many don't - he has a strong sense of morality, high intelligence and power, he _is _just about human except for once every month, and yet in comparison to many others who had so little, he does absolutely nothing. The fact that the Wizarding world is so prejudiced against anything non-Wizard should be something that propels and inspires him into fighting against the cause, into do _something _to change the sentiments of his people. I'm not asking him to suddenly speak publicly about werewolf rights or petition or change, no. He doesn't have the time or money for that. But what he needs to gain first of all is personal acceptance, I suppose.

Quite alot of people have also been telling me he's being treated very badly here. Believe me, Harry will come to regret his decisions concerning him. As for now, at 11, he has yet to understand creature discrimination, has yet to understand just what kinds of friends he's making, or that he's drawing a line between his friends and his enemies. By Second Year, he will have matured a lot. He's similar to Riddle now, but soon he'll need to find the diverging path and learn to be a good person, no matter what he might have to sacrifice.

I'm also using this chapter to point out the naiveté that lies amongst the students of Hogwarts. Their worship and idolisation of their founders have led to disputes between houses that, in hindsight, seem immature. Their respect for Harry pulling out the Sword of Gryffindor overruling their admiration for him being the Boy-Who-Lived Twice (and honesty, _which _is more impressive?) also makes them kind of shallow. These students are quick to judge and slow to let go of their prejudices. Canon second year seriously annoyed me. I mean, Harry's the _Boy-Who-Lived. _By then, he'd already been Sorted into Gryffindor, made best friends with a Muggle-born and blood traitor, even saved the philosopher's stone for certain evil, and just because he's also a Parselmouth, these students suddenly forget everything he is and has done and he's suddenly deemed Dark and Dangerous? That's so unfair. Obviously, in this fic, that hasn't changed. People value Harry more because they believe he's the Heir of Gryffindor, rather than because he's the Boy-Who-Lived.

Thanks again to all the people who reviewed. You guys are incredible.

qqqq


	7. Chapter the fourth: first year part b

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Chapter the Fourth

The first year

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_On behalf of Gringotts Wizarding Bank, I extend to you our gratitude concerning the events which occurred a month ago in our bank, for showing the quick initiative in defending our establishment against the unwelcome forces of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Your immediate reaction in blocking a simple Gringotts staff, of whom was also not of your species, against the Killing Curse fired by a possessed highly accomplished Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, is one which I do not believe the Wizarding world will ever experience the privilege of witnessing. Perhaps it was simply a lack of inhibitions mixed in with ignorance, instinct and coincidence, but nevertheless, Gringotts has determined that the consequences would have been far greater had you not intercepted._

_We therefore extend our hand in service, assistance or favour to you, Harry Potter, in the form of a Debt. In any circumstance within the near future, shall you seek our alliance or aid, we shall provide._

_We sincerely await your call._

_Griphook_

_Gringotts Wizarding Bank_

Part 2

Emancipation

"The thing about goblins," Daphne began, "is that they're creatures of calculation_. _If a wizard offered a hippogriff two galleons, it'd probably kill him for hurting its pride and even _thinking _to offer a hippogriff charity. If a wizard gave a centaur two galleons, the centaur would probably remember it as a mark of friendship and decide to repay it later in a way they saw worthy of two galleons – abstract riddles, predictions and the like which most wizards wouldn't give a hex about. But if a wizard offered a _goblin _in need of money two galleons…"

"Then you can bet your wand the goblin'll first draw up a legal document that officially declares themselves in your debt and keep it with them or pass it down the line until the opportunity arrives when they repay that debt," Zabini finished.

His fellow first years weren't finished. "Now imagine, Potter," Draco continued, "that it's not two galleons the goblin owes you. It's their life. When a wizard actually saves the life of a goblin by risking their own safety, even risking their death…the goblin is just about _forever _indebted to you. In fact, if you asked for sole ownership of Gringotts right now, they'd probably give it to you."

Harry gulped, not quite knowing whether to be jubilant or slightly frightened over that fact. "How on Earth is that practical?"

Daphne, Blaise and Draco all rolled their eyes and sighed. "It's like this, Potter," Draco explained. "When it comes to debt and money, goblins are the strictest, most serious, most careful, and probably one of the proudest creatures out there. You save their life, they will remember it till the day they die, and they'll track you down and follow you until you have no choice _but _to reap what you've sown. No matter what the favour is, once a wizard willingly helps a goblin, the goblin is obliged to help the wizard with anything he can possibly need help on, and they will give their service until the wizard dismisses them."

"Which, in the history of goblin debts," Blaise added slyly, "is never."

Which brought Harry to his next big idea – Gringotts was a well-established institution. Could the goblins be the power player that could solve all of his problems?

Draco answered that well enough. "They're goblins," he scoffed, "they're hardly _all_-powerful. Helpful at most, but if you want to solve your problems, you need to do it yourself."

_-wizardry-_

Draco was right.

The thing was, the goblins _did _hold power, but their standing in the Wizarding community connoted them as being sub-human, a category of magical being that made them inferior in the face of the Wizarding court, or ministry. At most, Gringotts goblins could aid Harry in managing his inheritance and presenting him with legal advice. The rest, unfortunately, was up to him.

Keeping his Sword, however, was hardly Harry's top priority.

_I came here for a better life. I came under the belief that Hogwarts could be to me something Number 4 Private Drive could not. I refuse to ever return to that life, of boredom, half-baked dreams and a life living off the delusion that the future could be better._

The first thing Harry needed to do was research.

_Why_ did Dumbledore hold the authority to give Harry away to his aunt and uncle, enough authority for the rest of the the world to believe him (as Remus Lupin foolishly had) without ever bothering to check up on his word or even questioning any of his actions?

Dumbledore was a teacher, but he was so much more than that, for why else would so many hold him in their conscience?

Ron Weasley had worshipped Dumbledore. Judging by his chocolate frog card which Harry still conveniently kept in his pocket, so did most of the Wizarding population. Yet Harry's friends, particularly Blaise and Draco, two who he considered were undoubtedly the most arrogant of the lot, sneered at him with disdain. Why was that the case?

It was a tall order of questions Harry was dead-set on finding the answer to. The first place to find them was, naturally, the library.

Dumbledore's power obviously stemmed from his political standing in both the Wizengamot. The other obvious power figure Harry could spot was the Ministry. Within the first week, _An Overview of the Ministry of Magic _by Mafalda Wenslogg and _The Complete History of the Wizengamot Council _by Cecelia Bones, had been issued, but the answers were far from fulfilled. Wenslogg and Bones hadn't exactly written the books with an eleven year old audience in mind, and their long, stringy words and magical jargon (some which even Draco stumbled to understand) left Harry bewildered. Little progress was being done as it was, and by the end of the week, the Ministry had already sent him a Howler, _graciously _giving him two months' notice to hand over the bloody Sword, or _else._

By then, Harry was no longer reading for leisure, but out of desperation. There was only so much his grandly-bred friends could help him on, and certainly what Harry needed to know was beyond even their cynical understanding of the Wizarding world.

One of the few _interesting_ things Harry had learnt in his first week of research was that the Sword of Gryffindor _was _Gryffindor's and _goblin-made, _and by the goblin sense of the word, meant it was also goblin-_owned._

_The goblin tradition dictates that when the owner of a goblin-made instrument perishes, the possession of the instrument is naturally reverted back to its creator, the goblin whose magic and skill was used to make the instrument. This tradition, however, clashes with the Wizarding idea of personal ownership, in which the wizard holds full legal possession over what they consider is rightly their property – gift, commission, or inheritance._

Malfoy summarized the entire chapter on goblin ownership with a snort. "Goblins. They think they're so righteous, but they'd never bothered with the tradition too much – I mean, they _sulked _– until about two hundred years ago, when wizards _finally _realized how particularly brilliant goblin-made weapons were, and Gryffindor's sword became famous for, you know, Gryffindor and not exactly for being goblin-made. So they tried to take it back, but the thing was, they were too hypocritical about it. They wanted to claim the sword for themselves because Gryffindor had died, but what about the fact that the goblin who'd forged it had died as well? Why should the goblins get to keep something after its owner died when the wizards didn't? And thus, you have a problem."

It was times like these that Harry found Malfoy extremely smart, not that he'd ever tell the pureblood. His approval must have shown on his face, for Draco preened a little. "It's called mandatory pureblood knowledge," Draco added, playing off his modesty. "You can't live in a world for eleven years and not pick up a few things. I bet even Weasley knows something about."

It was the closest thing Ron Weasley would ever get to a compliment from Draco Malfoy and much to Malfoy's distaste, he scowled furiously.

Of course, something that sent the Slytherins into fits of laughter was when Harry discovered the interesting tidbit that all goblin-made artefacts had the power to _imbibe all that which strengthens it. _The comedic part was, naturally, when Pansy and Daphne recommended their _Seduction _perfume as test subject.

_Oh, yes, because that's how I'll kill the Dark Lord - by _seducing_ him._

"Oh, just try it, you silly snake," Daphne urged teasingly, "it'll only work if the perfume's stronger than the sword. It mightn't do anything to it anyway."

Harry looked from Daphne and Pansy's fanatically eager faces to Ron's tortured expression and Blaise and Draco's strangely curious faces. _Might as well. _He shrugged, taking off his cap to take out the Sword. Immediately, every eye in the Slytherin common room fixated itself on him, staring at either the rare scar on his forehead or the just as intimidating goblin-made sword in his hands. At his discomfort, a few older Slytherins sneered and sniggered.

The girls filled two tablespoons of their precious perfume and carefully poured it over the blade, intently watching the effect. Silence drifted across the table, a rarity occurrence amongst such a self-indulged group. Then, Nott of all people spoke up.

"What is actually _in _your perfume, Parkinson?"

The group looked at the quiet boy in surprise. It was Draco who answered. "Essence of Amortentia. That's why it's so expensive."

"Essence of what?" Harry, and Ron whose presence was naturally self-invited, all said at the same time.

"It's the most powerful love potion in the world," Daphne and Pansy said at the same time, their voices filled with awe.

"Also the most expensive magical ingredient that's borderline legal in perfume," Blaise added knowledgeably.

That certainly explained why Harry and Ron were the only two people at the Slytherin table who didn't know what it was.

"The potion itself isn't dangerous," Daphne said seriously, "It's the way it's used. When brewed correctly, Amortentia can make the drinker fall into love with whomever they choose. It's been known to change the course of history, Muggle _and _magical. That's why a ban was enforced on it in the late 18th century."

The surprise of the general Slytherin table shifted to Daphne.

"Oh excuse me," she huffed indignantly, turning slightly red under the attention. "I might be a girl, but I'm not_ stupid_."

Draco smirked. "Of course, this brings us to Blaise's situation. You see, Amortentia may be powerful for the drinker, but when brewed in excess or for extended periods of time, the _aroma _of the perfume, which is attraction in its essence, becomes a smell the brewer is so familiar with, they become…_immune _to love, or attraction shall we call it."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "And…how exactly does this link back to Blaise?"

Blaise, for once wasn't smirking/scowling/sneering, merely finding a newly-discovered interest in his Transfigurations homework. The others sniggered.

"Amortentia allergies are inherited," Millicent filled him in smugly. "Which means Blaise has got it too. If anyone so much as attempts to feed him Amortentia in excess, he could actually _die._"

That explained the occasional jibes Malfoy loved to make at the boy whenever Blaise was winning in an argument. Harry decided to relieve his friend of some embarrassment. "Love potions are difficult to make," he said nonchalantly, "your mother must've been a skilled potion-maker, of course."

"Of course," Blaise said snootily.

Between the hours in which classes were on, homework needed to be done, and other strangely bartered substances were demanded to be tested upon on Harry's sword (word had gotten out that the Sword of Gryffindor imbibed all that strengthened it), Harry was devouring his books, cutting back sleep to make room for his Potions notes and the odd History of Magic extra reading (Binns wasn't exactly informing) and, naturally Remus Lupin's _love letters_, as Blaise and Pansy had come to call them.

_-wizardry-_

…_Being your father's best friend, I find it my responsibility to oversee your academic studies and welfare. Dumbledore assures me you are doing well and adjusting terrifically into the magical education system, giving particular mention to your extraordinary grasp of spellwork in both Charms and Transfigurations. I am very pleased in hearing this, for both your parents were gifted students at a young age. Professor Dumbledore tells me you seem to be having some difficulties in Potions. Harry, Professor Snape is a very talented potions master but his teaching system leaves much to be desired. He was also your father's biggest rival at school, and it goes without say that the hatred he holds over James Potter has passed on to his son. You must therefore be on your best behaviour at all times in his presence and treat him with the same respect you give to Professor Dumbledore…_

…_Professor Dumbledore has recently offered me the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts. I have given this position some consideration, but decided to consult with you before I make my decision. When Dumbledore first approached with the plea to write to you on a daily basis, he assured me you were an incredibly intelligent but vastly cynical boy. You do not trust very easily, you give no consider for the authority figures in your life and you generally bend the rules to suit your own purpose. It's an open secret that as a child, you were troublesome and constantly pushed the Statute of Secrecy to its limits. The real world, however, will not be a world of luxury forever and no magic can make up for the loss of one's parents._

It had been a week since Remus Lupin's first letter, and the wizard was as stubborn as ever – another four letters had been sent, this time with _slightly _better parchment and ink, each time revealing even more desperation for Harry's attention.

_I am determined Harry. I'll keep my distance if you don't want to _see_ me; I'll understand. But I _will _write to you, I _will_ persist, even if you choose to ignore every word I write, even if you use this parchment to wipe your butter knife, I swear to you I will._

At this, Harry had brutally stabbed the butter dish with his knife and wiped it with Lupin's letter.

Remus Lupin, a man who just wouldn't give up. On Snape, when he had simply refused to take no for an answer, it had earned Harry's respect for him. But on Lupin, a man who wouldn't change tactics, simply believing his letters could somehow wear Harry out until he finally relented and replied, all it achieved, and rather spectacularly, was Harry's annoyance.

Remus' letters loved to mention the fact that Harry was a motherless, fatherless, _orphan _who constantly used magic as a gain for love and attention, still yearning all day and night for the tender embrace of his parents, and certainly the only person in the _entire universe _who could help remedy both of these issues was _Remus Lupin. _That _wasn't _true. Sure, Harry missed his parents like every other orphan. Yes, Harry wished they were alive. Certainly, he yearned for their touch. But it didn't make Harry a boy who thought day and night about the parents he'd lost before he could even walk and talk, or a boy who didn't know how to make do in a world that valued the art of adapting.

Harry was merely _lonely. _He wasn't _depressed _or _damaged._

What stuck most to Harry's mind was Remus' constant insistence that Harry was 'just like his father', and the assumption that he had gotten into _Gryffindor _of all houses. The more he thought about it, the more it worried him. What if the Gryffindors were right – what if he really _did _belong in their house?

_But Lupin doesn't know you. Not like Snape does. He's never even met you before._

"Thinking deeply there, Potter," Blaise observed.

Harry frowned. "It's that Lupin character again," he said, handing his friend the letter of the day.

Blaise nodded, as if one letter explained everything. "I don't particularly like him," he whispered indulgently, "Reminds me too much of Weasley, except half of him is Granger too."

Harry briefly pictured a man with red bushy hair, freckles and buck teacher. "Blaise, shut up."

Blaise smirked. "I'm right, aren't I? He practically worships Dumbledore, just like Granger. 'Dumbledore assures me you are doing well', 'Dumbledore's offered me a position as professor'. And he worships you too. 'I'll keep my distance if you don't want to see me; I understand.' What is he – bloody in love with you?"

"Actually, Blaise," Daphne chimed in, finding great amusement in what Blaise had just said, "it's called a love triangle, where the poverty-stricken paedophile is caught between the two opposite yet equally great forces of good and evil, he torn between what is right and what he wants, between his heart's desire and his common sense."

Blaise and Harry shared a look. "Daphne," Blaise said testily, "what have you been reading?"

"_Romancing the Werewolf,"_ Pansy piped up, "about a werewolf caught between carrying out his duty as part of the pack and falling in love with a kelpie."

"Rubbish, clearly," Draco scoffed. "Who'd fall in love with a _kelpie_?" He paused. "Actually, kelpies are alright. Who'd ever want to be with a _werewolf_? They're _half-breeds_."

Pansy and Daphne both gasped, glaring at him scandalously. "It's _romantic. _And it's not _that _disgusting, you know. At least the werewolf isn't in love with a _human."_

As the four friends each made noises of disgust, Harry secretly smiled.

The beauty of having vain, selfish friends was that they each believed the universe revolved around _them, _and as such, thought nothing much of Harry being the Boy-Who-Lived. He was given no special attention, except for the fact that every group needed a leader and he, strangely enough, was it, and the normalcy of it all made Harry feel like he was just Harry, a concept he had been familiar and comfortable with for ten years. They gave their opinion on things Harry didn't understand or felt puzzling and then they moved on. Conversation was rich, interesting, and naturally eye-opening, never stale amongst them. Harry loved every second of it.

If only Ron Weasley would stop acting like Harry had gleefully murdered his rat all the time. Ron's days were spent alternating between following Harry around everywhere in the hope of looking less alone, and pining for the Gryffindor table, often attempting, especially in front of other Gryffindors, to prove his hatred of all things Slytherin and his loyalty to the house of lions. Harry was tempted to tell the boy off for being such a prejudiced hypocrite, but thought better of it.

After all, it wasn't Harry being in Slytherin that angered the boy the most.

No, what angered Ron Weasley the most was Harry winning the position of Slytherin Seeker, simultaneously the title of youngest seeker in a century of so, when technically the title should have been his.

Technically.

If only Ron Weasley hadn't been too busy sulking and fearing for his life all the time.

_-wizardry-_

The incident naturally occurred after Neville Longbottom conveniently broke his ankle and eliminated the presence of the only authority figure amongst a group of first years, each armed with a broomstick. The first minute after the initial incident, there was…peace. Or, more closely, as close to peace as a foul mixture of Gryffindors and Slytherins could get. There was nothing to suggest even the slightest hint of trouble (Malfoy's burst of laughter and "did you see his face? The great lump!" aside) until Draco Malfoy's sharp eyes fell on an interesting object lying in the grass, abandoned.

"I say, look at this!" he exclaimed to his friends, genuinely curious. "It's a -"

"A Remembrall," Hermione Granger immediately caught on, determined to avoid the horrifying chance of anyone getting it wrong, "it changes colour its holder forgets something. It's also Neville's, Malfoy. You should give it back."

At her words, Draco's smile turned positively jubilant, completely foregoing Hermione's no-nonsense tone. "Longbottom's is it? You're right, Granger. I _should _give it back. But there's no fun in that, is there?"

Across, Harry watched on with sharp eyes. The situation reminded him only too much of the times Dudley and his gang had taken Harry's things and dangled them in front of his eyes before disappearing forever.

"How about I leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find – say, up a tree?"

"And how about handing it to him yourself once Longbottom's out of the hospital wing, Draco?"

It was the _right _thing to say, and the entire congregation stretched out on the Quidditch Pitch turned to look at Harry was slightly disbelieving eyes.

"It's pretty pathetic how Longbottom needs a Remembrall of all things to help him remember where his head is," Draco added tensely, naturally followed by the support of the Slytherins.

"You shut it, Mal -"

"Nobody's perfect," Harry counteracted with a shrug. "_But,_ seeing as he just about gave it to us, I suppose it wouldn't kill to play around with it…" Hermione Granger's glare naturally turned to him, coupled with a mouth half-open and about to retort the betrayal she was currently facing. "…as long as he gets it back in one piece."

Movement on the Quidditch Pitch paused again. Harry almost felt like hitting his head repeatedly with the sharp end of his broomstick. Was there nothing he could do that didn't leave an audience in shock?

Malfoy, hardly needing to be told twice, swung a leg over his broom and leapt off, immediately followed by his bodyguards (whose lack of poise in comparison to Draco couldn't have been more obvious), then Zabini and Nott. The rest of them watched in a moment of hesitation.

Then Ron said, "Well _I'm _not going to be the only Slytherin not in the air." And with that, he too took off.

Harry watched the game commence as Draco threw poor Neville's Remembrall to Goyle, who missed it managed to accidentally hit it towards Zabini, who caught it but wobbled at the imbalance of weight on his broom and after what seemed like minutes threw it to Nott…

All in all, the 'game' was pretty pathetic.

"Well," Harry added wryly, glancing at the Gryffindors who merely watched on slightly lost, "seeing as Neville's in your house, I don't suppose it'd be wrong if the game opened to everyone."

At the suggestion of being in the air, Hermione Granger nearly had an aneurysm, but Seamus and Dean, both knowing that joining in would be better than wasting time, not to mention it'd naturally be Slytherinsagainst Gryffindors(rivalry was in their bones), took off without another word. Millicent Bulstrode rose to the challenge, and at the sight of the first girl in the air, Lavender Brown, Patil, even Pansy and Daphne all of a sudden felt that they too _must _be flying.

Only a handful of people remained on the ground.

"Harry Potter," Hermione fumed, "look what you've done! You're going to get us all killed. Or worse, when Madam Hooch comes back…_expelled."_

Harry ignored her, blocking out her irritating nagging (why couldn't she bother someone else?) by the excitement of finally flying for the first time. He swung a leg over, imitating Draco's earlier movements, and kicked off.

_Wow. Just – wow._

It was the most natural thing he had ever done in his life, and the best part of it was, he didn't even need to _think _about flying. As Nott threw him the bauble, the object fell into his fingers effortlessly, nothing like Zabini's clumsy movements earlier, or worse Goyle's nearly comical reach. He chucked it to Lavender, who flew the nearest to him, then took off, completely disregarding the game.

He ducked, he turned, he zigzagged, he _flew. _Around him, people started to slow down and turn to watch as he gave a hoot before turning upside down and making circles in the air. It wasn't showing off, as he was sure Granger was thinking as she watched him. It was _living his life._

Then Pansy Parkinson dropped the Remembrall.

She had, apparently, forgotten by then that she was holding something in her hand as she watched Harry fly.

"Catch it someone – WEASLEY!"

Ron, flying about five feet directly below her, merely watched the bauble travel, from above his line of vision, to the space _right in front of his very eyes, _to below, too stunned to do anything. By the time he had come to his senses, it was too late – the bauble was going to smash and there was nothing anyone could do.

Harry, however, acted on his instincts. He dove, slightly aware of the many screams he heard (and naturally Granger's "this is ALL your fault, POTTER!"), mind more focused on the fact that it wasn't really diving anymore, it was suicide. He was dropping at a speed faster than the bauble in order to catch up to its distance, perpendicular to the Earth and there was absolutely no way he could actually catch the Remembrall before it hit the hard Earth whilst simultaneously spinning his broom on an angle greater that ninety degrees to avoid collision…

_Who knew your mind was so mathematical, eh Potter? Wait, _concentrate. _Stop thinking about angles and dying. Just get the bloody ball already…_

Two things happened roughly at the same time. First, Harry Potter caught the Remembrall. Second, he hit the Earth with a painful thud, greatly nullified by the presence of Severus Snape and the wand he held which had sprouted a softening charm at the last possible instant.

What followed naturally would be the greatest punishment he would ever face under the rule of his head of house, Harry knew.

_-wizardry-_

"I _would _ask what you were thinking, Potter, but by now it's become apparent to me that you, Potter, simply _don't," _Snape snarled as soon as the two of them were in his office. "I've tried to delay this as long as possible, under the hopes that you would prove me wrong."

Harry took a deep breath, ready for his sentence. It helped that his lack of possessions spread around his dorm would mean a quick, nearly clean break. There'd be no need to dally, no explanations demanded if he bolted out of there with his things as quickly as he could. He'd miss Draco and Blaise's sarcasm and cynicism, he was sure, and maybe even Daphne and Pansy's giggles over gossip and romance. Aunt Petunia might be mad, but nothing compared to the ultimate satisfaction Vernon would feel at seeing his return. They hated his presence and salivated at the idea of getting rid of him, but nonetheless cherished his misery even more. Petunia would have kept the uniform she'd made him for Stonewall High, and life would go on, just as he'd wanted it to, and they could find another victim to dump the task of slaying Lord Voldemort on…

"But today has only shown me, once again, how simply _stubborn _you are, Potter," Snape mused, not sounding half as angry as Harry had imagined him to be.

"You, Potter," he continued, "have a complex."

…

"A hero complex to be specific," Snape elaborated, interpreting Harry's lack of reaction as confusion. "You simply cannot live with the fact that evil and misfortune lurk in the world and _every time _the slightest thing happens, I find you defying the laws of nature and butting in, doing what you always think is _right."_

Harry winced. The fact that every word Snape said seemed to be ringing a bell with him only had him wishing Snape could just expel him already.

"You are unstoppable. You have no limits. I might as well stop ignoring the fact that I'm ignoring the impossible. You leave me no choice."

Harry swallowed.

"As a consequence of your previous actions, I am putting you on the Slytherin Quidditch team indefinitely, the specifics we'll test for later. You will train _every third evening _with Marcus Flint _without fail, _unless you are dying, dead or paralysed, you will play and win every match until you graduate, and you will not, _ever again, _attempt to risk your life for a measly Remembrall, and if I find any of these sentences broken, I will suspend your library privileges, _indefinitely. Is that understood?"_

Harry blinked, mind still preoccupied by the fact that Ron had borrowed Harry's spare tie last week and had yet to return. If he was going to leave, he couldn't do so without getting his tie back, could he?

"Wait, what?"

Two days later, a mysterious, broomstick-shaped package arrived for one Harry J Potter.

_-wizardry-_

For the life of him, Harry couldn't figure out why everyone was so crazed about him making the Quidditch team. It only became worse after his trial of every position when Snape made him the Seeker, only the most valuable player on the team. The news had spread like wildfire (it didn't help that half the Slytherin first years had snuck up to eavesdrop at Snape's door, probably with Snape's knowledge), like everything else concerning Harry Potter, and before long, Harry once again found himself on the front page of the Daily Prophet.

"I honestly thought he was going to expel me," Harry admitted to his friends. "You should've seen his face – like I was going to _die_."

Draco snorted. "Professor Snape _hated _James Potter," he said wisely. "The reason he acted like it was a funeral is because to him, it just about _was. _It's obvious my godfather hates you, and that he loves making you miserable. But between that and keeping up Slytherin's winning streak, I think he figured he had to sort out his priorities. He's not your biggest fan, but he'll compromise."

This, actually, wasn't news to anyone, especially Harry. With the way Snape gritted his teeth, and narrowed his eyes, forcing himself to keep on talking whenever the conversation subject was on James Potter, he hadn't exactly kept it as a secret, but not for the first time, Harry wondered why.

Harry nodded, thinking back to Snape's very brief mention of James Potter having been the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain, back in his time. _I'll bet he was good, too. The Slytherins must've all hated him…_ "Wait a minute, _godfather?"_

Malfoy's face twitched with pride. "Of course," he said in his arrogant voice.

"It's so obvious. Snape _worships_ him," Blaise immediately added snidely. "'Well done Draco. Ten points for being the light of my life and fifty for giving my existence meaning.'"

Millicent, Nott, Daphne, Harry and even Ron burst into laughter at his words.

Being the Seeker should naturally meant glory amongst the Slytherins, but if anything, it only succeeded in being a hindrance. Not only did it take up more of Harry's time, time he could be using wisely and valuably, but the other houses were also beginning to resent him, the Boy-Who-Lived who never seemed affected by the mundane rules that applied to the rest of them (surviving the Killing Curse was bad _enough_.) He even understood – it just wasn't fair.

The biggest Anti-Harry campaign was naturally launched by the existing members of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, as well as any other keen non-Slytherin Quidditch fans. Even some of the older Slytherins were beginning to seem intent on hating him. No one, it seemed, thought he deserved to be on the team, and that being the Boy-Who-Lived had more to do with it.

"Hurry up, Potter," Flint, the Slytherin Quidditch captain, would greet him at the start of every practice. "Gryffindor would've won the Cup twice in the time it takes you to get in the air."

The rest of the evening wouldn't get any better – it generally consisted of Flint getting the entire Slytherin Quidditch team, as well as any eager spectators, to simultaneously launch bludgers at him and laugh whenever one of them hit the target. That, and what Flint merrily called "tag the Seeker", in which the generous captain rounded up live flying _students _to chase after him until he caught all five stitches Flint always made sure to toss out.

"They told me you were worth it, Potter," Flint made sure to call out every time Harry slacked. "So far, the only explanation I get for why you're Seeker is that damned scar of yours."

Pansy and Daphne _always _watched, along with Draco and Blaise, neither of whom made the slightest attempt at covering up the fact that Harry's training was the funniest thing they'd ever seen. Secretly, Harry thought they just wanted to feel better and get over the fact that _they _weren't playing Seeker. Absolutely no one was happy with him being Slytherin Seeker, and didn't take much more for Harry to understand why Snape had issued such a punishment.

_-wizardry-_

His second trip to the Headmaster's Office wasn't as unexpected as the first. In actual fact, Harry had been waiting for the day to come and sure enough, a week after Gringotts had sent their official declaration of debt, McGonagall nodded to him and muttered tiredly, "Acid pops, Potter", before moving past him. There was no point telling him what it had meant, and both of them knew her greeting him with the names of various Muggle sweets was about to become a common enough scenario in the days, weeks, months, and yes, years to come.

This time, as Harry strolled into his office after lunch, Dumbledore's focus was on a letter he was currently composing. He hadn't even bothered to look up or greet Harry at all, merely continued writing. Harry, not quite knowing what to make of it all, decided to wait for Dumbledore to break the ice first.

"Professor McGonagall tells me you performed yet another feat of magic in her class the other day, Harry," Dumbledore said softly.

Right. Harry also had the slight feeling that his magical prowess wasn't what Dumbledore was interested in talking to him about. But just for the respect he, a student, was supposed to show Dumbledore, the Headmaster, he stayed silent.

"Silent spell-casting, and transfigurations no less." His eyes twinkled. "I must say, I was pleasantly surprised to hear she awarded you with twenty points."

"Just to stay fair, of course, she also couldn't help but take five off for sloppy wand movements," Harry added, unable to stop himself.

"Indeed. Professor McGonagall is an incredibly fair teacher. I'd like to think the reason she teaches Gryffindors and Slytherins together is because I know she can manage without offending either party and rather, stay neutral."

Harry nodded absentmindedly, deciding to grant Dumbledore the chance to ramble as he took the time to look around his office.

"Harry, from the moment you entered these halls, Hogwarts recognized you as a student with mighty potential. Greatness lies in your future, and one day, you will be powerful." Dumbledore's eyes turned solemn. "Professor McGonagall was surprised, however, at your willpower. You performed far better under extreme pressure than under simple request."

Harry inwardly snorted. Extreme pressure was right. McGonagall hadn't believed Harry when he told her he could only hold his transfigured object in its state for mere seconds, and as a result, she had every student in the classroom point their wand at him, threatening to unleash the wisdom of first years onto him if he did not at least attempt to hold the spell in place.

It worked.

"And it plagues us," Dumbledore continued, "knowing that you, Harry, had flooded the Department of Magical Misuse with the hundreds of advanced spells you had cast over the years in front of the muggles, successfully and indeed powerfully."

This, unfortunately, was news to Harry.

"You know then," he suddenly said, surprising both of them with the bitterness in his words. "You know why I could do it before. It was because I _needed _it. I was _forced _to resort to magic, _magic _of all things to protect me." It suddenly dawned on him. "I know why the spells I performed with my wand didn't work as well as they used to now. It was because I wasn't threatened with being beaten, I wasn't forced to choose between doing magic or getting punched, and I didn't need to try so hard because I knew I wasn't going to _punished _for failing."

Dumbledore blinked, sadness shining in his eyes.

"Talk about motivation," Harry continued, voice slightly cracking as he finally felt the strain of so many years' worth of terror, despair and loneliness on his back. "Do you know what my cousin and his gang's favourite game is?"

Dumbledore shut his eyes for a moment, almost in pain.

"Harry-hunting," Harry spat. "Invented and instigated by my own cousin. Watched by every kid in the playground. Ignored by _every single adult in my life."_

"My dear boy," Dumbledore pronounced softly, "I am –"

"But you lot," Harry continued, feeling the surge of anger that fuelled his defiance, "you must have known. You could have done something to stop it. Was my welfare worth so little in your eyes that I didn't even deserve a visit, didn't even deserve a second thought?

"Until the day Professor Snape came and got me, I had no idea I was even a wizard. I was told, time and again, that I was worthless, a freak_. _That my parents were _freaks. _That they were drunks who had died in an accident and _deserved it_. I had _no idea._

"For ten years," he spat, "I was a _freak. _Magic existed in nothing more than my freakish imagination. My parents were _stupid, disrespectful drunks _who got themselves killed in a well-deserved car crash. For ten years, my home was in the cupboard under the stairs. When Dudley got his thirty-eight birthday presents, I got nothing. Christmas was, at most, fifty cents. And did you care, Professor? Did you ever bother to spare a minute of your perfect life and visit Surrey, even for just a minute, and check up on me? Did you ever even _care _about the kid who was the Boy-Who-Lived, or was it always just the Boy-Who-Lived who was a kid you were waiting to grow up?"

By the time sense had finally returned to him, the damage had been done. Dumbledore was struck silent, looking graver than ever, and in the rage of wanting him to feel the guilt of his actions, Harry had failed to remember his pride, slightly ashamed at having the most powerful wizard of his time know the story of his neglect.

"Words cannot even begin to describe how sorry I am, my dear boy," Dumbledore finally said, seeming to mean every word of it. "If only I had known…if only I had cared more…one often forgets that a child needs love. I had thought your aunt would let go of her grudges and treat you with the love she gave her son…I never considered the possibility…"

_Right. Because you never even _bothered _to consider the possibilities._

"Please, Harry," he pleaded, "give this old man a chance. I was completely wrong in thinking you were happy with your relatives. All I ask is that you give Hogwarts the chance to give you the childhood you never had. We want to help you, my boy. We want to help you heal."

Well. It wasn't what Harry was after, but it would have to do. Harry couldn't help but notice how nothing had been said about the Dursleys, but for an instant, it almost seemed like it wouldn't matter. They were far away in another world, carrying on their miserable lives, and it would be at the end of the school year before they were forced to see each other again.

_One chance, Dumbledore. Don't let me down again._

Months later, Harry would laugh at his naïveté.

_-wizardry-_

By November, Harry had won his first Quidditch game against the Gryffindors in triumph, beat his classroom record and earned _sixty _points in a single Transfiguration lesson (granted, he lost fifteen) and did something he never thought he would ever attempt to do – make peace with Hermione Granger.

Attempt being the key word.

It naturally began in the library, about the only common the two of them had. Harry was strolling the bookshelves, looking for a book that tune him in with the Dark Lord he was supposed to defeat and his politics when he caught her mumbling, frustrated, "Flamel, Flamel…where _are _you?"

The sight of Granger looking so desperate was almost comical, and Harry felt like pointing out the fact that Flamel was slightly older than the 20th century Wizarding history section she was perusing under but just as he was about to speak out, the Gryffindor jumped about two feet up into the air and squealed.

"P-Potter!" she spluttered, "what are you doing here?"

At the evident suspicion in her voice, Harry rolled his eyes. "Don't flatter yourself Granger. Despite what you may think, the world isn't out to get you. And calm yourself will you? You look like you're about to combust any second."

Granger glared. "You're the most arrogant person I have ever met, Potter" she spat.

Harry sighed. Here he was, attempting to stay somewhat civil in the presence of the most annoying person _he'd _ever met, having sworn on the train to make her life a living hell, and she was completely ignoring his valid comment in favour of insulting him.

"Look Granger," he said, "I know neither of us can stand each other and that you'd probably laugh if I died, but just for the sake of it, truce?"

Granger looked at him with a face that seemed more likely to believe him if he told us he was a girl. _Okay, maybe that was kind of abrupt._

"I'm not asking you to love me or anything, but this thing we have between us is kind of getting on my nerves. It's not exactly nice having someone glare daggers at the back of my head every day, and for you, it can't possibly be rewarding. How about we move on from all that? We don't have to be friends but you're not exactly a bad person. I'm not all that keen on hating you actually."

Granger seemed to weigh down her options as she stared at him. The way she looked at him was kind of unnerving, and Harry almost felt like taking it all back, but then she burst out, "Fine. But only if you apologise."

Harry blinked. "You're asking me to apologise? What for? You're the one always glaring at me."

Granger seethed. "You're _so _obnoxious, Potter. You think you own this school just because you're the Boy-Who-Lived. Some of us have to work _extra-hard _just to get where you and the rest of your Slytherin entourage are! We weren't _all_ born with a silver spoon in our mouths and lightning scars on our foreheads. Maybe if you remembered that you'd stop acting like you're such a spoilt brat!"

Harry didn't know what to say. Part of him felt like he'd landed in an alternative universe in which all of the things Hermione had just accused him of being were true. The rest of him felt the rage and injustice – he would've felt better if Granger had slapped him, repeatedly, but being wronged was something he absolutely couldn't stand with a passion.

"Merlin," he spat. "I can't believe I actually thought we could be _friends. _You know nothing about me, so don't you dare pretend you do, Granger. My parents are _dead. _How spoilt do you think I can possibly be?"

Granger rolled her eyes. "I know enough. It's no secret your family was rich – they were _Potters_ and they left you with everything – generations of wealth and knowledge, seats in the Wizengamot Council, estates and investments globally…the very broomstick you own is yours because your parents used to sponsor the industry that makes them."

Harry was dumbstruck. Here, weeks of researching the Wizarding world and perusing through the Hogwarts library had left him lying at the feat of a muggle-born first year in a matter of seconds.

"If you know so much, Granger," he said pensively, because ultimately his curiosity triumphed over his hatred, "then answer this. How would I ever get my hands onto any of that if I'm only eleven? I can't even do magic outside of school. At this stage, everything I have that's actually mine for the using is zilch."

Granger stared at him, slightly mystified at how they had evolved from trading insults into something so obscure. She opened her mouth, half-inclined to insult him again, but under the intensity of Harry's stare, replied with one word, something that would change Harry's life forever.

"Emancipation."

_-wizardry-_

Emancipation. It was a word not many an eleven year old would know but nevertheless had Harry Potter staring at Hermione Granger in unashamed incredulity.

Emancipation – the ultimate and legal declaration of freedom, where an underage wizard could choose to appeal before magical court and prove his capability and proficiency in living independently,

Harry had read it, naturally. It was the reason why Sirius Black, disowned son of Walburga and Orion Black, had inherited the entire Black family fortune after the death of his father – he had been unable to gain emancipation, and even though his family had disowned him, the Black fortune had still become his, even against the many protest of his outraged relatives, because by Wizarding law, he was still considered the Black heir. Black's case was probably the most famous one in Britain's history; the outrage and scandal that had arisen (during which his own _mother _publicly called him a 'thieving traitor') amongst members of one of the most respected and feared families in the Wizarding history of Britain naturally made the story a legend.

As for Hermione Granger suggesting emancipation as an alternative to his problems, he couldn't help being impressed. His situation was the opposite of Black's – where Black sought to escape his duty as head of Black, he sought to recapture his role and importance to the Blacks. Where Black had been determined to relinquish all responsibility and control his position and his family had over him, Harry simply couldn't wait to rid himself of his.

_Sweet Jesus, I need to talk to Granger more often. _"Thanks," he said sincerely. "You may have just saved my life." Granger looked at him oddly, and the likelihood that she was currently questioning his sanity didn't go unnoticed by Harry. "Oh, and by the way, Flamel's about six hundred years old and still counting. If you're after information about him and the Philosopher's Stone, then you're way off."

Neither of them knew that around the same time Harry was contemplating the genius that was Hermione Granger, Hermione was thinking the same thing about Harry Potter.

_-wizardry-_

It was quite possibly the most obvious thing, what Granger had stated. As soon as he sat down at the Slytherin table, mind still whirring with what she had said about the Potter legacy, he set about composing a letter to Gringotts, asking them just how much he had to his name, and what he, as a minor, was entitled to. He knew he had money, but surely his parents would have set up a trust fund for him leading to his seventeenth birthday.

"That can't be your Defense essay you're writing, Potter," Blaise remarked casually. "There's only so much one can write on the subject of counter-jinxes before it gets a little dull."

Harry ignored him, scrambling through his bag for wax.

"I had no idea," he muttered. "I thought it was just the money, and there was so much of it I never bothered to think there was more to my inheritance than that."

Blaise, slightly mystified, tentatively picked up Harry's hastily written letter and skimmed through it. He snorted when he put it down. "The person you should ask," he said, "is Daphne."

Harry blinked. "Daphne? What would she know about my inheritance?"

Blaise's grin widened. "Well, Pansy was my first recommendation, but what with Malfoy being her future husband and all, I figured she probably doesn't care too much for your wealth. Daphne, on the other hand…"

"Yes, Zabini?"

_Speak of the devil. _Harry gave Daphne, whose interest seemed to revolve around gossip, beauty and fashion, a sceptical glance. "Blaise here is under the impression that you know something about what my parents left me."

Daphne handed him a bored look. "What's Lupin written to you now?"

"It wasn't Lupin. It was…just a Gryffindor."

"Must be someone who reads _Witch Weekly, _then," Daphne remarked, pushing her magazine in front of him. "They can't stop raving about you."

Harry's eyes shot up. Granger read _Witch Weekly? _The idea that girls like Daphne and Pansy shared anything similar with Hermione apart from the fact that they were of the female influence seemed almost comical. With the thought still in his head, he glanced at the pages Daphne was flipping through.

"You're not exactly a bad-looking bloke, Potter," she said casually, pointing to a certain picture of him which he recognized was after the Gringotts Incident, framed with hearts and lipstick marks. "Sure, you're a little skinny –" she pointed to a page titled 'THIN IS IN' that had a full-length image of him, looking lost and overwhelmed at the corner, somewhat malnourished, "and alright, your hair is beyond messy –" she flipped to yet another page, this time called 'THE POTTER HAIR', "but you are also very, very rich."

"Alright, Daphne," Blaise said, sniggering at Harry's expression. "Get to the point before you scare him off."

Daphne sighed.

"You see, Potter, it isn't just the fact that you have a kind of fame no other individual in the world could ever acquire. You're also powerful. And not just in the surviving-Killing-Curse kind of way. I'm talking about political power. Numerous seats in the Wizengamot council. Being underage, you have little control over them, but you do have the choice of guardian. Whomever you entrust the seats on your behalf can potentially change Wizarding law."

Harry gaped.

Blaise quickly followed on. "The Wizengamot was formed centuries ago by a band of influential pureblood nobles. These nobles set down the rules of Wizarding society and created what we know of as the -"

"The Statute of Secrecy, which is the basic principle of which all wizards are required to uphold, yes I know," Harry said impatiently. "But no one ever mentioned the Wizengamot seat as being something that is _inherited_."

Blaise and Daphne smirked in unison. "That's because only the _most _noble and ancient of houses in Britain will have permanent seats. These seats are usually upheld by prominent members of society, particularly the Ministry, but they usually represent the ideology or mindset of the seat's patron."

"And I have two seats?" Harry said in disbelief, vaguely thinking back to the fact that he was, still, just a half-blood. "Who's upholding them then?"

There came a pause.

"It's not that simple, Potter," Daphne said slowly. "James Potter was the heir of the entire Potter fortune and the last time he'd ever bothered with the Wizengamot was…I dunno, maybe fifteen years ago. Most purebloods don't ever look at Wizarding law, unless it's something that might impact their life. They just choose a representative in the Ministry to act on their behalf."

"Daphne, who did my father assign his seats to?"

There came another pause.

"Actually, he had one seat," Zabini cut in, "the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black is yours because its previous master is in prison."

Harry sighed. Deeply. There could only be one answer to his question.

"Let me guess. Albus Dumbledore."

_-wizardry-_

Did the fact that the most powerful wizard in Britain had virtually stolen Harry's birthright surprise Harry? No. Was he hurt? How could he be? The Wizengamot was a duty that came with coming of age of the seat bearers and Harry was not only ignorant of nearly all Wizarding law, he was also only eleven. Had Remus Lupin truly been James Potter's greatest friend, then the way Lupin gushed over Dumbledore was most likely not at all different to James Potter's attitude towards the same man. In fact, it was the very act of James Potter handing over the duty of upholding the Potter House that had secured Albus Dumbledore's position as Chief Warlock during the years the Dark Lord had seized control over the Ministry.

"It's written here that _'in 1979, during the height of the Dark Lord's power, twenty-six of the fifty-four Wizengamot seats ruled Albus Dumbledore as being inadequate to lead the council. It was James Potter's vote of confidence and his decision to hand over the Potter seat to Dumbledore that allowed the wizard to remain as Chief Warlock.'_" A pause as Nott smirked at the page. "_'Of these twenty-six, only seven genuinely believed that he had become too lenient and had lost the lives of many innocents in his reluctance to take immediate action.'_"

"The rest?"

Nott shrugged, eyes skimming down the page at immense speed. "They had more sinister intentions."

"With the Potter seat naturally came the Black seat," Blaise drawled, reading from another book. "_'The line of duty fell upon Sirius Black, when in the same year of 1979, his father Orion Black passed away. He was disowned by his family, but seeing as no legal documentation made it official and the previous contest for emancipation made on Black's behalf had failed to win support, ownership of the House of Black was lawfully passed on to him.' _He was your father's best friend, and when his arrest made his position illegitimate, he requested you, his godson, to keep it. That, naturally, meant the guardianship of Albus Dumbledore."

Harry nodded, slightly dazed at what they were saying. "Wait a minute – _Sirius Black_ was a criminal? The Sirius who inherited the family fortune only because he failed to gain emancipation?" Harry was amazed. "He's my _Godfather?"_

Draco sent him a dark look. "Try having him as your mother's cousin. Being arrested is the last thing that comes to mind when my family talks about him."

Pansy on the other hand snorted. "Honestly, Potter. You're the smartest in our class, _and _you're constantly reading about Wizarding law – I mean, what first year does that? – but you don't even know the first, most obvious things about yourself."

The idea of his father associating with criminals worried Harry a little. Hadn't James Potter had any _normal _friends?

"'_The lordship of the Black estates was legally given to Harry Potter, whose grandmother being a Black gave him the right to claim entitlement,_'" Blaise continued, "looks like you're part of the family, Harry."

Harry gaped, thinking back to what Draco had said to him his first day at Hogwarts. _You have magical relatives too, you know. _In all his excitement and worry, he had forgotten Draco's words.

"Draco, you're a Black. We're actually related."

"I'll have you know your great-grandmother was a Bulstrode," Millicent added proudly. "Married her way onto the Black family tree. Also the sister of _my _great-grandmother."

"Your great-great grandmother was a Flint," Blaise added. "If you told him, I'm sure Prefect Flint would cut you a little slack."

"Really?"

At his hopeful expression, everyone at the table laughed.

"My great-grandfather was your grandmother's only brother," Draco added. "He actually married a Crabbe."

The table sniggered. Harry, after making sure Crabbe and Goyle were nowhere in sight (Ron had joined the pair in avoiding the library), said in mock-tragedy, "well, you win some you lose some. I can't possibly have absolutely perfect relatives."

This gained another smirk from the table. "Your grandmother was a Black, Harry," Pansy said gleefully, "you'll never guess who else shares the trait."

"Longbottom," Daphne said cheerfully. "Of course, her sister was disowned after marrying a Weasley, but we won't mention that."

Harry frowned.

"Doesn't the family ever hold any…I dunno, get-togethers?"

Draco shot him a look that seemed to question his intellect. "Potter, the youngest generation of Blacks that have survived the war consists of me, you, Longbottom and the Weasleys. Somehow, I can't imagine a family reunion happening. As for our parents' generation, half of them are dead or in jail. Weasley's parents and mine are the only ones left, and any chance of a Malfoy declaring the Weasleys as familyis about as likely as our insane relatives escaping from Azkaban and joining in on the fun. Let's not even get to the fact that Weasleys and Malfoys have historically been enemies for centuries. And as for our grandparents' generation…nearly everyone's dead or dying and trust me, none of them make pleasant company. There's a reason Longbottom was raised by his _father's _mother and not his mother's."

Pansy, Millicent and Nott sniggered.

"'_The controversy behind Dumbledore's leadership_,'" Blaise continued to read, "'_circumvents around the fact that he is predominantly backed by Sirius Black's seat in the Wizengamot, a position that became essential in securing Dumbledore's position as Chief during the initial backlash that occurred after Black's arrest. The shocking murder of thirteen innocent muggles as well as one close Wizarding friend, performed near-instantaneously the day after the Potters' deaths, led to speculation over Dumbledore's inability to make wise decisions and the leniency he constantly granted his patrons as well as Order of the Phoenix members, and only the seat vote of Potter and Black, cast before their death and arrest respectively, allowed Dumbledore to remain on the Wizengamot. The debate ignited once more when months into Black's imprisonment, the Black seat in the Wizengamot council was handed over to his godson Harry Potter, but given to Dumbledore supervision due to Mr Potter's young age and lack of experience_.'"

"You see, Harry?" Daphne said triumphantly. "The Potter and Black seats are both yours. Dumbledore may have them, but unless he has Potter and Black blood running in his veins, he can only represent or supervise them, never own the seats as a true Black and Potter does, never issue them out to his friends and certainly not hold on to his position indefinitely. His political power comes because both seats work in his name, but _you _are the true patron of the seats. You have the potential to storm the entire Wizengamot if you choose to withdraw Dumbledore's advocacy powers and accept your duties early."

_Withdraw Dumbledore's advocacy powers…storm the entire Wizengamot…_Harry was caught. What would kicking Dumbledore off the council entail? Surely a lot of his political power, but the problem was, Dumbledore had yet to make a move that would seriously cause him any harm. In the end, he was just an old man who had made a lot of bad decisions, but still in the name of good intentions. He didn't deserve what Harry could do to him, and both of them knew that.

Besides, he'd promised Dumbledore a chance.

_No, I won't do it. Tearing down a leader who is powerful, compassionate and loved and putting in his place an inexperienced child is wrong and selfish. This isn't just a vengeance game anymore; it's also the future of Wizarding Britain I have in my hands. How can any of them think it's alright to do such a thing?_

Harry Potter's mind was set, and no matter how convinced Daphne, Nott, Millicent and Draco were that he should seize the opportunity, they weren't going to change him. Albus Dumbledore wasn't bad. He wasn't good either, but he didn't kill Muggles or ruin families just for the sake of it. That was how Harry thought for the next two weeks.

In the end however, the purebloods won.

_-wizardry-_

The incident that led up to their victory happened exactly five weeks after the start of school on a seemingly normal morning. The students and staff of Hogwarts sat down for breakfast. The owls arrived that the usual hour. Letters, treats and the papers came. For many, it _was _a normal morning.

For the Slytherin table however, things were a little different.

It began with Daphne Greengrass randomly opening the paper to page five, after speculating that the first four pages would almost certainly be about the wonder that is Harry Potter/Albus Dumbledore/the Ministry of Magic.

She was right.

On the fifth page of the Daily Prophet was the picture of the renowned pureblood, Arcturus Black, the oldest living Black at the ripe age of ninety. The picture was naturally taken in his youth, for Arcturus looked about twenty, with black hair remarkably like Harry Potter's and a handsome jaw line that made Daphne wish he was half a century or so younger.

And then she read the headline.

OLDEST BLACK, ORDER OF MERLIN, DIES

She gasped, momentarily at a loss for words as she handed the page to Blaise, who in turn showed it to Draco and Theodore. Theodore's only reaction was a split-second loss of control over his bottom jaw, hardly out of character for the solemn boy. Draco seemed to feel slightly more mournful, but he too did nothing to suggest he cared.

Before long, Harry Potter picked up his newspaper, skimming through the front page, which discussed the many benefits of a stronger ban on Dark Arts possessions the Ministry was thinking to introduce and strangely left the negatives untouched, moving to the second page, narrating another amazing act performed by the Boy Who Lived, this time for being the youngest seeker in a century based on his raw talent (the news came rather late), the third page an account of Dumbledore's recent contributions to the Wizengamot council and fourth page his actions (or lack of, in Harry's opinion) concerning the Defence Against the Dark Arts position at Hogwarts. By the time he, too, chanced upon the image and article on Arcturus Black, the Slytherin table was well underway in discussing the wizard's death.

"Mother won't be pleased," Draco said grimly.

"I imagine there'll be a funeral," Pansy added. "Looks like you're wrong, Draco – all the Blacks'll _have _to be there now."

Draco grimaced. "Except for the blood traitors, of course," he grumbled, mood decidedly dampened. "They never understand the idea of family obligation."

"You'll be going then?" Harry was surprised. When Vernon Dursley's uncle had died from a heart attack two years ago, the family had continued on their dillydallying without another thought. Draco's arrogance had led him to think the same.

Draco, on the other hand, seemed almost offended at the doubt evident in Harry's question. "Of course. Artcurus Black was a much respected member of Wizarding society – he's even got an Order of Merlin to prove it."

Harry frowned. Inwardly, he struggled. _To go or not to go? There is no reason why I should even pretend to like these people. They, after all, never cared to come find me. But on the other, like the Dursleys, my placement in the Muggle world was out of their control. That was Dumbledore's doing. The benefit of doubt will always tempt me if I don't go…_

"An approximation," he finally said. "How many people will I insult if I don't turn up?"

Draco hesitated.

And for Harry, that was all it took to make up his mind.

_-wizardry-_

"Fizzing Whizzbees!"

The gargoyle sprang to life and Harry entered the headmaster's office for a second time, heart beating excitedly as he made his way to Professor Dumbledore's office table. "Professor?" he called, slightly disheartened at his headmaster's lack of appearance.

Beside him, Fawkes chirped in agreement.

A little while later, just as Harry was about to give up, Dumbledore appeared, entering the room with his usual grandfatherly expression. "Ah, Harry, I was just about to pay you a visit. Sit down, my dear boy. Make yourself comfortable. I see you have already acquainted Fawkes. A wonderful phoenix, is he not? Come, my boy. Please sit. May I offer you a lemon drop?"

Dumbledore fussed with his presence, giving him the vague impression the old man was trying to put off the inevitable for as long as possible.

"Professor," Harry butted, hearing the impatience in his voice and choosing to avoid it, "I'm here because of the article that was published in the _Daily Prophet _today about the death of a relative of mine. Arcturus Black. His funeral is in three days, and I was wondering if you could grant me permission to attend."

If Dumbledore was surprised at his bluntness, he hid it well. "Ah yes, dear old Archie. I see you have researched your family tree well, Harry."

He reached for a lemon drop, taking the time to savour its sweetness before he continued.

"Do you know, his Order of Merlin was awarded for the huge sums of money he donated to the Ministry of Magic."

"Your point, sir?" He tried to sound as polite as possible.

"I can only hope you will take my heed and not glorify these people, Harry. Surely you will have heard by now that the Blacks are considered one of the oldest and darkest families in Britain."

"The Blacks are also considered one of the largest families in Britain, Professor," Harry injected. "Just about the entire school has some semblance of Black blood flowing in their veins. Surely, you're not suggesting this school's training ground for Dark witches and wizards, are you?"

Dumbledore stared at him for a long, long time. Then he said: "You have come under influenced by your peers, my boy. No doubt Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, Daphne Greengrass and the other Slytherins I see trailing at the end of your robes. You made fast friends, Harry. Fast, but not always good."

Harry, meanwhile, was experiencing the vague feeling of déjà vu. It had been five weeks since Draco Malfoy first stood in front of Harry and Weasley, commenting and blatantly insulting his choice in friendships, a pureblood sneering at the blood traitor. Today, it seemed like the blood traitors' turn.

"I thought, being the Hogwarts Headmaster and all, that you'd supported house unity and gaining connections."

"Connections, my boy?" Dumbledore looked disgusted. "The only ones who have gained worthwhile connections are _them. _Harry, in answer to your question, I understand that it is difficult for a Slytherin to find friends, but one doesn't always have to stick to those they're told knows best. Millicent Bulstrode is a half-blood much like yourself Harry, as is Tracey Davis."

Tracey Davis, also known as the completely elusive Slytherin first year who took it upon herself to avoid Harry (and consequently the other Slytherin first years) upon sight. Harry's only attempt at befriending her had ended in disaster when the girl had given just about _ran away _from him before he'd even finished saying 'hello'.

"Half-blood?" Harry repeated. "Since when did being a half-blood have anything to do with this conversation? Professor, I don't like what you're implying, at all. Yes, I realise most of my friends are purebloods, but that doesn't mean they aren't worthy of being my friends. Millicent _is _my friend anyway. The two of us being half-bloods won't change the fact that I still consider Draco, Daphne and Blaise friends as well. And as for Tracey Davis, when she's deemed herself ready for the rest of the world, I'm sure she will reappear on the Slytherin table and for once acknowledge our presence."

Dumbledore gave Harry one of his well-practised looks of disappointment. "Harry, even the best of us are fooled by the illusion that we know everything about everyone. We don't. Give Tracey the benefit of doubt. Don't allow yourself to be taken away by the wealth of your friends. Perhaps she will prove a far greater friend than Draco Malfoy, Daphne Greengrass or Blaise Zabini will ever be."

Harry seethed. "I'm not her guidance counsellor, Professor. If you're so worried about her lack of social activities, I'm sure she wouldn't mind you befriending her yourself."

For the first time since Harry had entered the room, Dumbledore looked genuinely amused. "Ah, but Harry my boy. Slytherin house has already recognised you as a leader. With all great leaders comes the burden of responsibility. The Slytherins look to you for advise, just as you turn to them in your hour of need. Even the other houses look up to you in some aspects. You may have realised that Hermione Granger has not managed to make a single friend in all the time she has been here."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Don't guilt trip me, professor. I'm not here to discuss friendship circles with you. Actually, don't distract me either. No matter what you say, I consider the Blacks as part of my family. When a family member dies, it's respectful to turn up to their funeral, I'm told. Surely, as a role model to so many others, you wouldn't want me to insult half of Britain, would you professor?"

Dumbledore regarded Harry with a searching look, as if begging him to understand. "Harry, my dear boy, these people are _not _your relatives. The Potters are your relatives. The Dursleys are your relatives -"

"And yet it would have done the world a favour had they not been," Harry snapped.

"But nevertheless, you share blood. Petunia Dursley is your mother's sister. Dudley is your cousin. _They _were the ones who took you in, Harry."

Harry snorted bitterly. "Trust me Professor. I've heard it before. I've heard it so many times. _'Respect us, Potter. Worship us. Clean the bloody dishes. Get the mail. _Don't _get the mail. Work, work, work.'_" He looked as his headmaster, squarely in the eyes. "The Dursleys, sir, have _never _treated me, or even _considered _me, as a relative. Yes, they took me in, but logic points to the fact that they were _forced _to took me in! I would have been happier had they thought to leave me in an orphanage."

Perhaps those words meant something to Dumbledore, for as soon as Harry had uttered them, Dumbledore's calm demeanour faded, and morphed into something akin to anger and disappointment.

"Never say that, Harry. Far weaker people have been brought up in orphanages, and their rootless past only serves as a legacy to their downfall."

Harry stared.

Dumbledore continued. "No matter what you say, Harry, I feel I have a responsibility over your wellbeing. I only have your best interests at heart, my boy. Always. Believe when I say that going to going to this funeral is not a wise decision. You are too young, too naïve to understand."

"Not young or naïve enough to slay the darkest wizard in history though, apparently," Harry enunciated. "Double standards, Professor Dumbledore. You expect me to achieve the impossible, without allowing me the chance to expect anything else in return. I want freedom. I want family, _real _family. Stop keeping me ignorant. Stop opening doors for me only to close them. I came into the Wizarding world under the illusion that this was the better world…prove to me I'm right. Don't make me regret coming to Hogwarts. Live up to your word. You told me to give you a second chance. Prove to me that you care. _Please."_

"Harry…" There were words Dumbledore truly wanted to say, memories the wizard wished the Boy-Who-Lived could see, emotions he wished were tangible enough to pass on as testimony of his integrity. He meant good, there was no doubt in that, but by then, Harry had realised most people in the world did.

After all, wizards like Grindelwald had operated in the name of the so-called 'greater good'. So too had Voldemort.

For a long time, no words were said. Only looks were exchanged. By the time Dumbledore spoke, both of them already knew – Harry Potter was not going to the funeral and if he should, it would be without the permission of Albus Dumbledore.

"What'll it take to gain your trust again?"

The inner Harry smirked, sniggered, spat and seethed. _Well, let's see. First, you can turn back the clock to the day in 1981, when you promised Lily and James Potter unconditional protection from the Dark Lord whose one fear was you, and actually live up to your word. Then you can go ahead and disintegrate whatever prophecy that makes you believe Harry Potter of all people will be the one to destroy Lord Voldemort. After that, you can kill the very wizard you seem so keen on having an inexperienced, eleven year old, muggle-raised child defeat. When you're finished, you can take back every stupid, insignificant lie you've ever fed to the general public that has them worshipping your bloody image and go do, on your hands and knees, _begging _them for forgiveness._

Then_ we'll talk._

"At this stage," he said calmly, "I'm truly not above leaving this school, for good."

At those words, Dumbledore seemed to age another century.

"I'll ask one more time, sir," Harry said slowly, feeling dread and triumph at the same time. "Will you or will you not let me go to the funeral of Mr Black, a member of the only people I will ever name as my family?"

The answer came before Dumbledore spoke. All it took was the old man's eyes to gaze at the sleeping Sorting Hat. Harry could've been eleven, naïve and innocent and would've still understood what the look meant.

Without another word, he departed from the Headmaster's office, and so too did any of Harry' trust in Dumbledore that still remained.

_-wizardry-_

Dumbledore hadn't granted Harry permission, but his word wasn't the only one able to grant Harry the approval to leave school. It was, after all, the Head of Slytherin the Slytherin upper years went to for permission into Hogsmeade, should slips be 'forgotten'. After serious contemplation and under the strong insistence of his housemates, Harry went to seek out the Potions Professor.

Their first one-on-one encounter since Diagon Alley, and the awkwardness was as tangible as ever. Harry didn't know how to act in a way that would for once convey respect to a man that clearly hated him, enough to grant him the approval he sought.

It began in silence, Snape calmly marking potions essays and Harry swallowing in anxiety. The man glanced at his pupil briefly with an elevated eyebrow, before wordlessly continuing. Harry, meanwhile, fingered the hastily folded newspaper article in his pocket.

"Is there any reason you are currently dallying in my office, Potter?"

Harry gulped, but decided to speak up before he wasted any more time. Snape was a Slytherin, but that didn't mean the man didn't value bravery, or confidence.

"Professor, a relative of mine recently passed away yesterday. Er, Arcturus Black? I was wondering if you could grant me permission to go to his funeral."

Harry, finally, had Snape's full attention. His head of house put down his quill and turned to inspect his student. Harry took the moment to take out the article, unfold it place it precariously on the desk.

Snape took one look at it and said, "Dumbledore has already refused to grant you permission, Potter. What makes you think me being your Head of Hose will change that?"

Due to a strange, terrifying set of circumstances, Snape had also turned out to be one of the few members of the Wizarding world Harry actually respected – and slightly feared. The man had survived a bullet fired by Vernon Dursley after all, and that was something one didn't see happening every day. It was therefore in the _opposite _of relief – utter anxiety – that Harry Potter realised. In order the gain the permission of Severus Snape, he'd first need to gain the man's approval, and that meant getting down to the bottom of things.

"Sir, you are the first magical person I can ever remember seeing," Harry began. "You saved me from the Dursleys, you introduced me to this world, and the day you spent with me in Diagon Alley is something I will forever appreciate. But I do not, cannot understand this hatred you seem to have against me. What have I done to earn so much repulsion?"

Snape sneered. "You, Harry Potter, are incredible. Completely incredible. Defying the laws of nature at one, surviving again and again seemingly impossible, _fatal _feats. Disrupting the Sorting Feast the first time since the tradition began…stealing Gryffindor's sword and having the audacity to demand to keep it…insinuating in front of a ministry official that _you _of all people are the Heir of Slytherin, and then having the imbecile _believe _you…but nothing, _nothing _beats what I thought James Potter's son would ever, ever do."

Harry blinked, slightly surprised, slightly afraid, slightly curious. "Er…what's that?"

"Get yourself Sorted into SLYTHERIN OF ALL HOUSES!" Snape shouted, so infuriated Harry was almost certain the tea in his teacher's cup was currently _boiling._

"In all honesty, I should have seen it coming," he spat, "I should have guessed, should have been prepared. To even _pretend _you were _Gryffindor _material of all things…Let me tell you something Potter – the reason I, Severus Snape, wasn't present for your Sorting was because I was drunk, and the reason I was intoxicated was because part of me knew what would happen and did everything in its power to stop me from going. I would have set the hat on fire had I witnessed it announce you a Slytherin.

"Everyone was astounded. I presented myself later in Dumbledore's office with the other teachers, and the lot of us gathered around the Sorting Hat to ask what it was thinking…and do you know what it said?"

By this point, Harry Potter was borderline terrified.

"It told me that it was _destiny. _Took my words right out of my mouth. One could almost call it karma. I had tried so hard to tell you your fate was inevitable and look where it got me – there was no arguing with the Sorting Hat – it refused to resort you, and personally, I think it was a bit offended at being doubted so universally.

"I watched you, Potter," he continued, "I noticed everything about you. From the way you defended yourself against the other years and houses to the way you shone in every teacher's memory. Professor McGonagall mightn't show it, but she loves you. Flitwick's only problem with you is that you aren't in _his _house. Professor Sprout praises your ability to discern the weeds from the plants. Sinistra only tells me every week that you are the only boy in her class, excluding Draco, able to recite the names of every star you have learnt. Madam Hooch sees stars in her eyes when your name is mentioned. Have you noticed? Even _Peeves _knows to stay out of your way.

"Potter, I owe you an apology."

Harry…blinked. Wisely, he kept his mouth shut, not knowing how to reply.

"Listen carefully Potter, for I'll only say this once – I hated your father. Detested him, loathed his very shadow. The fact that the son of my enemy happens to be in _my_ house is something I treated with shame. I was wrong.

"Had you been a lesser boy, perhaps I wouldn't have bothered. But you, Harry Potter, are far from a shame in Slytherin House. You are our biggest pride. It was my biggest mistake not knowing this sooner. And for that, I am sorry."

Unbelievable. It took Harry five more seconds in stilted silence to process Snape's words and another ten to realise his teacher was waiting for his words.

"You're honest with me, sir. Not many people are these days. I appreciate that. Thank you."

There was considerable relief in Snape's eyes as Harry uttered his reply, possibly the politest thing he had ever said to an adult.

"I used to think we were cursed to have _you _as our saviour, Potter," he said, surprisingly gentle. "Now, I think…we most definitely could have done worse."

Harry grinned. Finally, the words of acceptance he had been desperate to hear. It was almost alright, not going to the funeral. Not if it meant he'd at least earned Snape's respect.

It was then that Harry realised – Snape, in all his wisdom, power and cynicism, had once been a first year too. He had experienced the burden that came with being a Slytherin, he had been through it all and survived, albeit a different person. Most of all, he would have met James Potter in the seven years they shared at Hogwarts. He would have _known _him extraordinarily well, enough to have lasted most of the night they had first met talking about Lily and James Potter. He was genuine in his knowledge of the man, and that, in return, meant he should certainly have heard from Remus Lupin.

"Sir…"

How to phrase it without upsetting Snape? How to proceed with Lupin's fanatic mentions of Snape's childhood hatred of his rival and co.? How should Harry begin?

"Potter," Snape acknowledged, slightly impatient.

And Harry, with the overwhelming questioning of an orphan, desperate for approval and truth, found himself asking, at precisely the moment his teacher was reaching towards the same conclusion, a question he found he just had to know the answer to.

"Sir," he said slowly, "would you say I am anything like my father?"

Snape stared at him for the longest time.

_If yes, then Remus Lupin is genuine and trustworthy. If not, then the man's a liar and I'll continue ignoring his letters._

"No," he said eventually. "And if anyone tells you otherwise, they're lying."

It seemed Snape was just as surprised by the answer as Harry. Something shifted in his regard towards his student, something akin to understanding, to empathy, to brotherhood. In that instant, Harry just knew. It didn't matter anymore. Snape had been balancing upon a precipice, between acknowledging the fact that Harry Potter was Harry Potter and no one else, and the grudge he bore as a past victim of Harry's father. The ghost of James Potter had finally evaporated and when Snape looked up, it was Harry Potter's face he saw. No one else's.

"Three days," he mused, "we'll leave tomorrow. Draco may accompany you at the funeral, but you most certainly need formal robes. I believe the only ones you own are your school robes. You need something a lot more impressive."

And that, precisely, was how Harry Potter managed to persuade his father's bitterest rival to go against the Headmaster's words and got his way.

_-wizardry-_

Arcturus Black IV had two children – Orion Black, Sirius Black's father, and Lucretia Prewitt, of whom Draco made clear to point out was the widow of Weasley's late uncle.

"So you can see, he isn't exactly the most popular bloke," Draco explained.

Harry gave a surreptitious glance to the large crowd gathering around the seemingly tiny coffin. Of them included Draco's parents, Mr and Mrs Malfoy, who had on Draco's companionship asserted with a nod of approval.

"Pretenders, the lot of them. All here because of his Order of Merlin. All of them must be seething right now; they thought old Archie would hand it over when he died, but none of them expected the medal to be lost in the secret estate."

"Secret estate?"

Draco grimaced. "His son Orion's residence, where they keep the Black Family tapestry. Unfortunately, the place is so fanatically protected it's just about lost since the death of Walburga Black."

Harry just nodded, pretending he'd understood anything Draco had said.

The funeral was a grand occasion; almost hundreds of weeping elderly witches and wizards seemed to crowd around the coffin. The entire affair of getting the late Black underground took, with the aid of magic, a grand total of two minutes. After a few seconds of silence, the crowd almost immediately dispersed and intermingled, seizing the funeral as an opportunity to socialise. Cake, they were graciously informed, was being served.

The first person Draco directed Harry to pay his respects to was Lucretia Prewitt, the grieving daughter.

"Aunt Lucretia," Draco began politely, clutching onto Harry's sleeve tightly, as if doubting Harry's courage. "This is Harry Potter. Harry, this is Aunt Lucretia. Uncle Arcturus was her father."

Lucretia nodded in approval. Though her appearance seemed rather shabby in contrast to the grandeur the other Blacks had donned themselves in, her stance elevated her dignity and Harry, feeling uncharacteristically slouchy, straightened his back slightly. The change in stance drew Lucretia's attention, and as her pit-black eyes fell upon him, he couldn't help but feel worthless and insignificant.

Draco must have noticed, for he shot Harry a look as if to say, '_This is just the beginning. You have yet to meet the rest of them.'_

Lucretia Prewitt was extraordinarily cold to him. After she had finished her hour-long perusal of his entire stance and dress, her merely nodded and said, "good to see your manners have not been neglected under the tutelage of that barbaric place, Draco dear," gave Harry another disbelieving look, as if he _hadn't _survived two Killing Curses, and sneered silently before turning her back on the two of them.

An awkward silence then proceeded to wedge between them. Harry looked on at the crowd saturated with Blacks yet to come while Malfoy attempted to pretend Lucretia Prewitt's rudeness and hypocrisy hadn't actually occurred.

"Right," Draco muttered, in his relief spotting another relative. "There's Celeste and Clement Crouch. Their mother was a Black and their grandfather was whom Uncle Archie was named after."

It seemed Draco had yet caught hold of yet more social misfits at the function, for the women stood together, slightly distanced from the crowd. Their reaction was slightly better than Lucretia's.

"Harry Potter," Celeste said curtly. "I must admit, I am surprised to see you here. Your Gryffindor courage is truly something to be…_admired."_

The acerbic sarcasm couldn't be any more obvious.

"I do hope you are aware of the fact that you are the only Half-blood here," Clement said smugly. "As a matter of fact, you happen to be the first half-blood to own the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black's Wizengamot seat_, _as of _ever."_

Right. What a start to a beautiful friendship. Draco sent Harry an imploring look, urging him to say something.

Harry cleared his throat, frantically thinking back to the various tomes on the Ministry of Magic he had read. _Well, if they're Crouches, they must be related to Barty Crouch Snr, who __in the summer of 1982, was only a breath away from becoming the Minister of Magic, had it not been for the scandal that arose after the arrest and imprisonment of his only son, a proven Death Eater…_

"Good day to you too, madams. Bartemius Crouch Senior wouldn't happen to be your brother, would he?"

It was apparently the wrong thing to say. Between the two sisters, all traces of blood and life vanished from their faces as they stared at him in horror. It was then that Harry understood the reason behind the party's distance from the Crouches.

"Our brother is the Head of the Magical Law Department!" one sister hissed.

"That's right, he's the official judge on the Council of Magical Law!" the other added.

_Right. His ruthless tactics also led him to imprison several purebloods, some of which are Blacks…that's why they're so defensive…nice one, Harry. Making good with the relatives._

"I heard he was almost the Minister of Magic at some point," Harry blurted, hoping to keep whatever peace was left between them.

If anything, this made them even more enraged.

"Barty was _almost _Minister because of his useless son, _not _because of events within his control," Clement Crouch hissed. "Young man, be careful of what you insinuate."

It was almost hilarious – the way even the most composed and arrogant of them could quickly turn defensive and embarrassed as soon as their weakness was discovered. If not for the way they had struck back at him just as harshly, or the way Draco looked at him as if _he _were the next Dark Lord, Harry would have laughed.

It was officially a talent. He was far better at insulting people than complimenting them.

"Alright. It's okay, there's still hope," Draco muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "This time, Potter, let _me _do most of the talking."

Their next destination was Callidora Longbottom, the woman Draco was keen to mention not only happened to be the paternal grandmother Neville Longbottom was _not _staying with, but also the rumoured reason behind the boy's lack of confidence.

"Aunt Callidora, this is Harry Potter. Your grandson Neville is in his year. Harry, this is Aunt Callidora."

Third time lucky. Harry nodded at the strict-looking woman who vaguely reminded him of an unkind McGonagall and ventured to say quickly, "how do you do?" before Draco stopped him.

"Rather well, thank you," she enunciated with borderline civility. "I must admit, Harry, I am rather surprised to see you here today. It hadn't occurred to me that we Blacks would suit your…taste in relatives." She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. "Such affiliation the Boy-Who-Lived has with the darkest family in Wizarding Britain usually makes one question his motives…as well as his loyalty."

Draco discreetly sent a panicked look his way.

Harry answered anyway. "To be honest, I hold very little regard for loyalty at the present time." Mirroring her, he too tilted his head forward. "I've been living with Muggles for ten years, madam."

Her lips curled into a snarl. "Muggles? What was Albus Dumbledore thinking? He breached his power when he placed you with them instead of us_."_

At this, Harry couldn't help but feel enlightened. If there was anything he had learnt, it was to manipulate the conversation, and thus her reaction, to suit him. From subtly insulting him to twisted sympathy and anger, she had completely forgotten her initial intent at stirring trouble.

If there was one thing these people shared, it was the fact that every one of these intimidating, pureblood Blacks, were shallow in their responses. It was as if their emotional capacity didn't allow them to contain two emotions at once. Lucretia had been the loving aunt to Draco, then the hateful bigot to Harry as soon as she noticed his presence. The Crouch sisters were smug one second then embarrassed and defensive the next. The idea that these people were unable to display (or at least act in) two emotions simultaneously made Harry's life a lot easier, and he couldn't help but think of ways to use it to his advantage.

"The muggles are horrible," Harry murmured, making sure to convey the anguish and bitterness he felt through his eyes. "They abuse their position as my guardian constantly. They denied me my heritage, treated me no better than a slave, as if being magical made me less human in their eyes…as if it made them _better _than me."

As quick as lightning, Aunt Callidora's emotionless face shifted into one of the slightest sympathy.

"No wizard deserves such a treatment performed by low beings unworthy of ruling this Earth," she hissed. "How _dare _those mongrels -! I do hope you have attempted to emancipate yourself, young Potter. Such vermin deserve penance for their crimes."

Harry nodded, thinking back to Hermione Granger's words. "Naturally, it is something I am considering. But the fact remains that I am all alone in the world and certainly no one seems eager to discuss the topic."

Slightly exaggerated but mostly true. Books in the Hogwarts school library were all those that evolved around topics about the subjects studied in class. Only the restricted section contained any reading material of the like, and _all _first years were banned from so much as touching them.

Aunt Callidora patted his shoulder. "Of _course _Dumbledore would think to keep you uninformed. No one in Hogwarts is of much help, but there _is_ Gringotts, dear. Surely the goblins'll be willing to aid the boy who saved their employees and their name last summer.

Harry blinked. "Of course," he breathed. "Aunt Callidora, you're a genius."

His aunt beamed at the compliment, and beside him, Draco gave him an unabashed look of awe.

_Of course. Gringotts. I was wrong to just write them off as a separate entity in the Wizarding world. They are far more than a bank. The goblins guard our wealth, but should anything happen, their immediate hostage is the entire wealth of the Wizarding world. Gringotts is the safest place, but so many times I've read it being described as volatile. They can help me, they're required to help me._

"I suggest asking for a statement of your bank account," Callidora continued, "as well as transaction records for the last ten, eleven years. You might find something there. Gringotts can probably find you a decent representative in court. They mightn't be a law firm, but certainly their lawyers are far better and more disciplined than any other wizards' firm I have ever heard of." Callidora paused. "I also suggest a heritage test one of these days. It'll certainly dispel any doubts the law may have over the legitimacy of your ownership of the Black seat, and things will only worth in your advantage if your blood can trace to more bloodlines."

Harry nodded, cursing himself for not taking Gringotts more seriously. _Never underestimate the undervalued, Harry. Life lesson number one._

"Thank you, Aunt. I appreciate your support."

Callidora patted him on the back, pleased at his reply. "You _are _the master of this house, boy, no matter what the others think. Have a good day."

The two of them watched as she walked away, silence settling between them. Then Harry said, "Well, better."

"Good one Potter," Draco said, clearly impressed. "Have to say I'm rather surprised – Longbottom's a stiff one."

"Malfoy, just what are you trying to accomplish by getting me in with the social misfits here?"

"Patience," Draco chided. "I'm starting you off easy and we'll just…slowly work your way in. Good to get some practice first before I hand you over to the vultures."

The particular _vulture _Draco seemed keen to introduce Harry to was perhaps the closest living Black relative he had. His great-aunt Cassiopeia Black, whom Draco had warned incessantly was the scariest Black alive.

"I don't say this often, Potter," Draco muttered, "but just remember, half the Blacks are locked up in Azkaban. Aunt Cass beats most of them without even trying."

Harry didn't know whether to shrug Draco's heed off as the words of a coward, or to brace himself for the worse. In the end, his pride got the better of him and he scoffed. "Let's meet her before you talk yourself out of this, Malfoy."

Draco naturally scowled.

_-wizardly-_

It began alright.

"Harry, this is Aunt Cassiopeia," Draco introduced with all the grace of the world, "sister to your grandmother. Aunt, this is Harry Potter."

For an instant, under the steely, assessing look of his great-aunt, he felt like he was four again and Aunt Petunia, the most terrifying woman in the world, was gazing upon his existence with utter disgust, making him feel completely insignificant and unworthy.

"I'm rather disappointed in you, Harry Potter," Cassiopeia said, mouth hardly moving as she spoke. "It has taken you _this_ long to contact the Black family since officially entering the Wizarding world...that is an insult to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. You may be the Boy-Who-Lived, _half-blood, _but loyalty and respect in this house is earned fairly and _rightfully."_

Harry swallowed. "In my defence, I've only known the full extent of my heritage for about five weeks. I grew up with only the knowledge that my parents were no better than drunks and that it was more logical to scorn them and their kind than love them."

"Don't elevate your parents to a higher plane, Potter," Cassiopeia snapped. "They may have been better than drunks, but they certainly weren't any better than _you."_

Harry was liking his great-aunt less and less. "My parents _died _to save me," he snarled, clenching his fists to stop himself from unleashing the wandless magic he often did when he lost his temper. "Perhaps being a Black has made _you_ lost to the concept of family, but they gave their ultimate sacrifice for my life, and that is something I am eternally grateful for and _proud _of."

The withered edge of Cassiopeia's lips curled. "Honestly, boy. Do you truly believe no other mother would possibly do the same for their child? It is simply because not allparents are given the choice yours were that you seem to believe a sacrifice is glorious. Let me tell you now, Potter – it is the survivors we remember. _You _are the Boy-Who-Lived, _you _have changed the lives of millions, not them. The survivors are always heroes. Death, on the other hand, holds no glory."

By now, Harry was seething. The only thing that stopped him from hexing this woman and setting the record straight was the fact that Draco, in a desperate attempt to evade the impossible, had distracted his aunt with the classic, "have I told you about the time I visited Paris, Aunt?"

Harry utilised Draco's distraction to fume. _How dare you, Cassiopeia Black? You have the audacity to act insulted by _my _behaviour when clearly _you_ are the one lacking the decency to be respectful and polite? This is a two-way street lady and you're pushing it. _

"The Wizarding world is in much need of a leader," his great-aunt declared as soon as Draco had finished his lengthy description of the magical wonders and adventures he had had whilst in Paris. "Someone to revolutionise what our ways have become. A visionary, a forward-thinker, someone to overthrow the Muggle world and bring the Wizards out of secrecy. Surely, with two Wizengamot council seats and that legendary title of yours, that will not be difficult to accomplish. You'll need etiquette lessons, obviously. And a new image. That hair you have there is horrendous, not to mention those _glasses. _Surely you've heard of Magical Eye Correction, Potter. You're also quite short. Nothing Growth Potions can't fix, I'm assuming."

Harry was incensed. "I'm also _eleven, _woman. Privilege may seem a right to people like you, but for the witches and wizards of this world that actually _care _about the welfare of its people, rather than just political agenda, there is nothing about me that promotes the image of a leader."

"Mother also sent me to Greece last Christmas," Draco interrupted desperately. The two of them ignored him.

Cassiopeia's nostrils flared, vaguely reminding Harry of a furious Snape. "Incompetent. 'Political agenda'? Did I not just state that the Wizarding world is in need of a visionary?"

Harry sneered. "You call me incompetent then demand the same eleven-year-old to guide the Wizarding world into a revolution in the same breath? Madam, your hypocrisy truly astounds me."

By this point, Draco had pretty much given up trying to save the conversation.

"A little over three months ago, my head of house broke to me the news that magic existed, and that I was a wizard. Seven weeks ago, I entered Hogwarts for the first time. Two weeks is how long I've known of my relations to the Blacks. Rest assured, I am _flattered _that you would consider me appropriate to take back Dumbledore's command over the Black house. But to hand it over to an eleven-year-old whose power over this house's seat is only due to his godfather's arrest for murder? Is it truly wise?

"I am _ignorant. _I lack _experience. _You are selfish to believe an ignorant, inexperienced, underage wizard can help you any more than Albus Dumbledore. And more importantly, the public is _happy _with Dumbledore. He is what they see when they speak of a leader in the Wizarding world, and it would be wrong of me to change that.

"This isn't about right or wrong, young man," Cassiopeia snapped. "This is about the _greater good. _This is about the future of the Wizarding world. How _dare _you – _morals! _Think nothing of them! There is no right and wrong, only power and how you choose to use it. Haven't you ever heard of that saying? You think it's a common thing for a child as young and yet as powerful as you to have the privilege of working against some of the most influential Wizarding citizens in the _world _and watch world history at its making, only to give it all up for what? Morals, justice, a bloody thing called the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery?"

"The Decree is there to _protect _us!" Harry glared. "I understand that the old often suffer from memory loss, but surely you can't have forgotten about the _countless _witch burnings the muggles did to us?"

"Really? How utterly _Gryffindor _of you, Harry Potter! Let me tell you – the Statute of Secrecy has existed nearly forever, but the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery only came to fruition since 1875. Magic has _always _existed, Potter. Why then, do you think, this decree should ban underage wizards such as yourself from celebrating and honouring your heritage when for thousands of years previously, people have gotten away with it all just fine?"

"You _shame _your ancestors. You dare to call me, or anyone here condescending when it is you who is truly arrogant. You have the privilege of being the youngest master to two council seats in four centuries, the opportunity to revolutionise this world, and yet you dare to throw that away in the name of ignorance and inexperience. As the current master of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black seat, you represent not only this household's beliefs and ideologies, but also embody your ancestors and strive after a better future for your descendants. This is about a force far greater than merely _you _Potter. And to think you are unwilling to recognise your heritage, simply because Albus Dumbledore is older -!"

Cassiopeia paused, raising her clenched fists to the skies in a passionate fervour.

"I hear the cries of your Black ancestors as they _despair _at the state of the mighty house of Black. Albus Dumbledoreof all people with control over the Black seat! An old, Muggle-loving coot who frowns upon Dark Magic, now seated in the place of the darkest house in British history! _Why is he there, _Potter? Simply because your godfather, that useless, idiot boy, put him there, the same man who is in _Azkaban _repenting for his fourteen killings, _as we speak. _For thirteen years that blood-traitor has held power over the Black seat, a seat _not rightfully his. _What has he done for this house, Potter? Nothing but to hinder our greatness and power. He approved the arrest of every Black currently imprisoned. He dared to place his one-year-old patron with despicable _muggles. _What has he done for you to earn such loyalty?"

Harry Potter glared. He didn't say anything though, simply because he didn't know what to say. Cassiopeia Black was crazy – there was no doubt about that. Crazy and extremely arrogant.

But somewhere in her rant, there had shone brief glimpses of truth.

He deep-breathed. He spared another glance at his great-aunt. In all her cynicism and passions, she seemed to have momentarily forgotten her place at the funeral, proceeding to name back fourteen generations or so of venerable Blacks. She was mad - definitely, certainly, undoubtedly. It was just a pity that Albus Dumbledore was madder.

That was it. He had made up his choice. He wasn't going to agree with his great-aunt's ideologies, but that didn't mean they were completely wrong.

It was time to take some action.

_-wizardry-_

First, I just want to apologise for the immensely long time I took to write this chapter. It really, really wasn't my intention. I wrote something every day, but the problem was that the story grew and grew, until now I've come to realise that Harry Potter _cannot _be Harry Potter. He cannot ignore the majority of the Wizarding world in favour of the safe, tiny dome he resided his entire existence in. Characters are screaming out for me to include them. Events are bursting to take place. I can honestly say that this story will certainly be like no other, dear readers.

Right now, common sense is having me _pray _that I've written Snape in character. What he did earlier is so out of character, it even surprises _me. _But then I realised – the difference between Snape and Dumbledore is that one of them is completely honest with Harry and never bothered to hide how they truly felt towards him, while the other does. Sure, it was only after Snape died that the truth behind his motives and his loyalty came out, but he was willing for Harry to see his weaknesses in the end. Dumbledore chose to hide his past, and had it not been for Skeeter, certainly no one would have ever known the truth. And how do we know what Dumbledore _really _feels towards Harry? yes, he's always acting grandfatherly, yes he isn't evil, but for Harry to regain his trust, he needs to apologise. I think he did that well.

The Black characters introduced today all exist. If in doubt, you are welcome to check the family tree. Cassiopeia is one of my favourite characters to write about. She is by far the most Slytherin of all Blacks, and her behaviour contrasts with Harry's, exposing the Gryffindor side of him that is naïve, judgemental and slightly ignorant, an aspect of Harry's personality that I find I cannot change as of now. Yes, he's bitter, sarcastic, smart and powerful, but give him a break. He's eleven, and two months is just impossibly short a period of time for anyone to assimilate into a world so different and strange. Cassiopeia meanwhile grew up in this dark environment and knows what she's talking about. She spots the Gryffindor 'weakness' in him others don't usually tend to see, but at the same time, her prejudice of half-bloods make her blind to the more cunning aspect of his personality.

Cassiopeia speaks with several references to past Dark wizards, i.e. Grindelwald and Voldemort. This was done purposefully – being born in 1915, she has around the right age of a supporter of both wizards, especially their ideology. Her pride would have stopped her from literally branding herself and becoming a Death Eater, but certainly she had the ideology of one.

To those of you who think Harry is the heir of Slytherin and knows it, Harry only added that to humour (ahem, freak out) the authorities into letting him keep that sword. As for whether this can be backed by genuine evidence…only the future will tell.

Also, worries readers have of the goblins being Harry's ticket to freedom, and how this scenario is a bit of an overused one - don't worry, this is just Harry's first instance in forming a political alliance. More has yet to come. This fic is by no means goblin-centric.

I've also been thinking about changing the name of this story. Any ideas, anyone?

Once again, thanks for reading this, and please review with any questions/recommendations/tips/constructive criticism/overall rant.

quaquaquaqua


	8. Chapter the fourth: first year part c

Disclaimer: Not Mine.

Chapter the fourth

_The process of emancipation in the Wizarding world is remarkably different to the Muggle legal system. First is the matter of age. A muggle must be at least sixteen to qualify for emancipation, but a wizard is recognised by society as a wizard the moment he receives his magical school admission letter. Receiving the letter seals the wizard to the Statute of Secrecy, where he is thereby restricted from performing magic until his seventeenth birthday, and in theory considered a wizard of conscious mind. This is partly the reason why wizards who have yet to receive their letter will be given no notification from the Ministry of having performed underage magic._

_The second distinction is the severity of emancipation in the Wizarding world. Emancipation is extremely difficult to gain, and even then, a child not yet in his majority must still be under the protection of a distant relative or friend. In turn, while he will earn the freedom of choice and magic, he is required live under the roof of a witch or wizard of his choice, simply for his own safety._

_Third is its legal procedure. The family of the wizard petitioning for emancipation will require no solicitor, but genuine evidence must be provided, that is a wizard or wizard of the alliance of the family must write a personal letter stating that he supports the emancipation process. It is this process which is the most tedious, for convincing a friend of the family to give up their alliance in favour of a minor is considered inconceivable. The wizard then needs to testify in front of the family he has sworn his alliance to that the letter was written sound of mind and void of magical influence._

_Fourth, the wizard must swear to take immediately charge of _all_ entitlements and responsibilities he was born to uphold (i.e. forsaken inheritance, magical debts, Wizengamot seats). In essence, any underage wizards will take charge of their inheritance, including magical inheritance, as their own. This is often risky for wizards of very pure descent, whose heritage will surely include many unknown and forsaken origins with dormant properties and characteristics that will awaken with or without the wizard's consent. This poses little consequence for half-bloods such as yourself, but the Potter line is worth investigating in the case of gaining dormant magical diseases or disorders long phased out. Overall, however, this is of very little importance._

_Attached is the draft of your petition, which we will present before the judge at magical court. You are obliged to read and correct any errors. Please send back the edited document before the end of the week._

_We look forward to hearing from you soon._

_Cuthbert Ragnok, senior solicitor_

_Gringotts Wizarding Bank_

the first year

part c

At first, there was peace, or perhaps something of the like. Christmas was coming and both Hogwarts students and staff were excited, with the exception of the first year Slytherins who still had yet to figure out how their fellow snakes stayed one. One such person was Ron Weasley, though Harry suspected the only reason the redhead complained as much was because Blaise had taught him the wrong charm.

Or perhaps the correct one. If _freezing _had been Ron's intention.

"I-I-I'm s-s-s-surprised n-none of us h-have died-d-d y-yet-t," he chattered bitterly, his envy of the other houses greater than ever.

The others stayed momentarily silent, both to ignore the temptation of agreeing with Ron and to smother their laughs.

Ron Weasley was one thick-headed boy.

Nearly every single student would be leaving the castle for the warmth and comfort of their home this Christmas, and Harry had unfortunately reported to Snape that he would be one of them.

At this, Snape had given him a raised eyebrow. "I was under the impression you _weren't _on the best of terms with your relatives, Potter. When did this sudden homesickness develop?"

Harry merely winked. It was something he had become prone to doing whenever someone inquired over his Christmas holidays. "I'll need it, Professor. For closure."

"Closure?" Professor Snape was, by now, mystified. "And I suppose it cannot be provided here but rather with your relatives of all people?"

Harry shrugged. "Somewhat. Certain arrangements need to be taken care of, a battle won't be fought and won on its own, and just _maybe, _justice will be served." He grinned. "And of course, I'll finally have some peace

Severus Snape had never been more confused by Harry Potter. But because it was soon Christmas, a list of presents needed to be purchased (yes, even he had friends), decorations needed to be distributed amongst the expanse of an entire castle and Peeves had just been reported to have stolen half of Snape's potions supply, his star student's words were left forgotten.

Naturally, what came after mid-December was Christmas. Had Snape bothered to search a little deeper into Harry Potter's words, then perhaps Albus Dumbledore would have at least stood a chance.

Christmas Day came nevertheless. Harry Potter's Christmas present to the teaching staff of Hogwarts was something no one expected.

_-wizardry-_

Harry stepped off the train with the finality of a boy on the verge of changing his life completely and permanently, and for once he was feeling excited and optimistic.

"Harry," Pansy noted, displeased, "you can't be _that _happy about returning to the Muggle world."

Harry naturally winked. The entire compartment groaned.

"You'd better grow out of that over the holidays," Daphne said. She paused. "You _are _staying with Muggles, aren't you?"

"He's staying with family," Draco said in a tone that suggested finality. "On a more pleasant note, come over one of these days. Mother's thinking about holding a Christmas function of some sort at our manor; I'll be awfully lonely if none of you bother to attend."

Everyone agreed, Nott being the only exception, though Draco seemed to neither notice nor care.

"I'll have to see," Harry replied, much to everyone's disappointment. "There's something that needs – no – _must_ be done before Christmas. But I can certainly _try."_

Blaise smirked. "Before Christmas, you say? I hope those aren't _presents _you have yet to purchase."

Harry blinked. "Well, er, that needs to be done too, of course."

Once again, the entire compartment reacted with general annoyance.

"You forgot," Millicent said flatly. "Nice one, Potter. Whatever it is you're so concerned about, it had _better _be worth it."

Harry grinned. "Well, not that presents aren't important, but I can _definitely _guarantee this is classic front-page news."

This, however, impressed no one.

"You _sneezing _is front page news these days, Potter," Blaise remarked.

Harry huffed, feeling vaguely like the boy who cried wolf. "You don't understand. Compared to everything else, this is practically _literature. _Presents come, what, once a year. _T__his _is once in a, well, once _ever_ gift. Trust me on this one, Zabini. You will _not _be disappointed."

Everyone nodded their heads in resigned scepticism. No one really believed him.

Similarly, what came on Christmas was something no one expected.

_-wizardry-_

"Mr Potter, your documents have been finalised and are on their way. Is there anything else I can get you?"

The good thing about having wealthy pureblood friends was that they were nearly always right with anything concerning the Wizarding world. Harry had entered Gringotts with a simple plain robe he'd bought last month with Professor Snape, a hat (coincidentally the same one with the Sword of Gryffindor in it) and a list of twenty things he needed to achieve in Diagon Alley. Just like they had explained to him, the goblins were respectful (not entirely pleasant), firm, determined to help…and, if anything, efficient.

It had taken all of twenty minutes for the goblins to gather and amount his entire wealth into a single figure.

"Juice would be nice," Harry mentioned absentmindedly.

The figure was largely worthless, mostly because his status as a minor rendered them inactive for the time being. It was only by coincidence that Harry had mentioned Hermione's comment about his broom.

"Ah, yes, the Nimbus Racing Broom Company _may _be implying the reinstatement of your various investments…as well as certain endorsements they wish to boost their product demand."

Harry blinked. "Oh. I hope I haven't offended them by not agreeing to."

His goblin manager smirked. "You clearly don't read Quidditch magazines, Mr Potter. Believe me when I say they have lost nothing by giving you your Nimbus Two Thousand."

Harry suddenly felt incredibly naïve.

"If you would like to express your gratitude, however," the goblin quickly added, wanting to appease Harry's embarrassment, "I will give you the address to write to. For now, I will reactivate your investments to exactly the state they were in ten years ago before they lost legitimacy. You should expect updates on their progress every quarter, though I expect they will serve well."

Harry thanked him.

The only problem Harry had concerning his inheritance was the fact that a certain invisibility cloak was missing from his vault.

"The invisibility cloak has _always _been the prized possession of the Potter family's inventory," his manager huffed. "It is common for the eldest son to inherit it from his father, and take it with him almost immediately after he has received it, but after the death of your father, surely the clock would have been collected and placed back in here…"

Harry frowned. "Invisibility cloak?

"Every wealthy pureblood family, or family with noble roots, has family treasures. Some in the form of an ancestral ring or locket, others like the Blacks in the famed family tapestry, and yours in the form of an invisibility cloak. It is the ultimate sign of old power and wealth.

There was also the matter of the heritage test Callidora Longbottom had recommended him to take. He hesitated, knowing any blood relations he had would be useful, but also knowing that whatever magical relative he had left, he had most likely met. _Perhaps another time, _he thought. _Besides, two Wizengamot seats are enough. I can probably afford to ignore the other relations as of now._

"Later," he dismissed when the goblin inquired. "Perhaps…same time next year? I have plenty to do this holiday."

The goblin nodded, looking slightly unsatisfied. "Very well. Your papers have arrived, sir. One last check, for luck, then sign at the bottom."

Harry took a deep breath.

_Petition for Emancipation_

_of minor Harry James Potter, wizard_

Ink on quill tip met parchment, and truthfully, it was beautiful.

_-wizardry-_

With the first two things crossed off his long to-do list, Harry entered Diagon Alley with eighteen more things to do.

First would be the growth potions his Aunt Cassiopeia recommended. Granted, she was insane, hypocritical and biased, but in circumstances such as this, she was right. God forbid the only thing stopping him from earn emancipation in the end should be his small size.

The _bad _thing about having wealthy pureblood friends was that they were very, very hard to please. Harry had come out of Gringotts with five hundred galleons, knowing he would have to dedicate in its entirety to the cause of friendship.

_Not to mention those Black relatives…_

Being the Boy-Who-Lived did, however, have its fair share of perks. For one, flashing the shop-owner your scar meant _helpful _not _expensive _recommendations would be given (carrying five hundred galleons not so conspicuously led to plenty of suspicion) and it didn't hurt to know you were loved either.

Daphne and Pansy were each given a bottle of perfume of the _Amor _line that contained the same essence of Amortentia the two seemed to adore so much. He had been specifically informed that his purchases were a 'New Year's special' only Harry Potter could buy before Christmas.

Ron was given a crystal chess set, which he hoped the boy would take as a token of friendship. Knowing him, the gesture would probably be futile as the boy would likely take it as a display of wealth anyway. While he mightn't like Ron, it would still help not to get stabbed in the back in the near future. Millicent on the other hand would receive a pretty brooch Harry had deemed suitable for her hair and a grooming kit for her cat.

Blaise meanwhile had given him a specific list of things he was _not _to buy. _Nothing scented, _especially _Amortentia, nothing pink, red, orange, gold or white, nothing furry, nothing musical, no books please, no autographs, no articles of clothing, with the exception of shoes…_

_Don't take it personally Zabini, but can I get you a therapist?_

Draco, on the other hand, had owlled him a list of things he _had _to choose from, the foremost being the still-developing line Nimbus Two Thousand and _One _(that's right, still-developing), the Hand of Glory (also dead-expensive, not to mention borderline illegal), and an invisibility cloak.

_You have _got _to be joking._

By the time his relatives came to pick him up, Harry had bought presents for nearly everyone except Blaise, Draco and Snape.

_You win some, you lose some. Looks like the best will have to wait._

But one last thing Harry Potter had to do. The petition could not go on unless an alliance of his family testified that Harry could live independently and responsibly. There was no such person Harry could turn to, (being that the Dursleys had very limited friends and whatever friends they _did_ have surely wouldn't help _him), _except for one man.

One whose very persistence would be his undoing, Remus Lupin. Harry, smirking at the fact that he truly _was _Slytherin all the way, was going to con his way into getting Remus Lupin to testify. His was going to milk the man's guilt and relish in the fine taste of victory.

_-wizardry-_

_I'll admit to you now, Mr Lupin. I am only eleven years old. The Wizarding world is archaic, complex and often unforgiving. I won't pretend to you that I am equipped with all the necessary skills for survival. What is more, I have been sent to a completely foreign environment, one that I am expected to stay at over the course of the next seven years, without knowing a single soul. This is not something I am comfortable with, and I write to you with the decision of leaving Hogwarts and the Wizarding world and my family. Your numerous letters have only helped me realise my lack of independence and good judgement. I do not want to study at Hogwarts any longer, and my only request is that you do not contact me anymore._

_PS I have been lately informed that my father owned a cloak of certain value. Its disappearance has baffled the Gringotts goblins and I was wondering if you have any insight on this matter?_

_-wizardry-_

It was the twenty-second of December and Harry had the misfortune of being informed that it would be Bartemius Crouch, the Crouch sisters' brother, the judge on the Council of Magical Law.

"While it is true that the Council historically tries convicted murderers and suspected Dark wizards, your case has become far too controversial with too many conditions for this to remain in the lowly family court," his lawyer Ragnok informed him. "Bartemius Crouch Sr is highly-regarded in society, as you may well know, for his power and intelligence. He is also a staunch opposition against You-Know-Who. Your only concern is to convince him of your perspective and if he deems it fair, he will issue grant you what you seek."

What his lawyer _didn't _know what that Harry had already met Barty's sisters. he could only _pray _that the Crouch sisters hadn't reported back to their brother about Harry's words.

"Have a very merry Christmas, Mister Potter," the goblins said cordially as he exited Gringotts for the third time in his life.

Christmas. Which reminded him – he still needed to buy Blaise and Draco their birthday presents.

In a final attempt, he decided to search through his pockets for ideas.

First came a quill, the spare he carried with him for emergencies. Neither of them could possibly want quills, especially anything this cheap. Second was a shrunken Quidditch manual. He pondered this for a moment.

Whilst Blaise detested all things uncouth, Draco _loved _to boast of his many airborne adventures.

This led him to the third object he discovered in his pocket – the address of the Nimbus Racing Broom Company headquarters, happy and willing to serve at the word of Harry Potter.

Harry's letter to the company took little more than half an hour to reply.

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_It is with great pride that we of the Nimbus Racing Broom Company inform you of the development of our newest broom, the Nimbus Two Thousand and One. Currently, only four of these brooms have been completed, and the line will be released to the public by waiting list by June. Of course, your renewed sponsorship of our company allows you certain favours. Should you require it, at a small fee, we are able to deliver your Nimbus Two Thousand and One just in time for Christmas._

_Currently, the company is also beginning to develop a new line, one which customers have pointed out to hope will have a shorter name than the usual Nimbus brooms. Naturally, the production of the line requires sponsorship…_

The rest of the letter went on to describe the next wonder-broom, something they wanted to name in Harry Potter's honour, Lightning Bolt perhaps. (Personally, Harry found it rather tacky.)

Harry quickly wrote a reply.

_I would greatly appreciate it if you were able to deliver the product to Malfoy Manor, where I will be staying for Christmas._

Finally, Harry sighed in relief. _Draco Malfoy is about to get the first Nimbus Two Thousand and One on the market._

One down, still one left to go.

Being popular had never felt more tedious.

Meanwhile, on the other side of England, Remus Lupin was sending his reply.

_-wizardry-_

_Harry,_

_Words cannot begin to describe how sorry I am. It was not my intention to belittle you or make you feel you are unworthy or unsuitable for Hogwarts. Rather, everything I have read so far in the Daily Prophet has made you out to be intelligent, quick-minded, powerful, compassionate and charismatic. You have every sign of independence about you, and no matter how unworthy you may feel, please remember that you belong in Hogwarts. You belong in the Wizarding world._

_If you would allow, Harry, I will very happily accompany you to persuade your relatives into letting you live independently. Surely they must see reason._

_The cloak you mention is your father's invisibility cloak. It is currently with Professor Dumbledore. He has been looking after it for you for all these years, and I am sure he would be delighted to return it, should you stay at Hogwarts._

_-wizardry-_

On the twenty-fourth of December, McGonagall had been the first person at the High Table to open the _Daily Prophet._

_-wizardry-_

The Dursleys briefly entered the Wizarding world for the first time through the door to the courtroom on Christmas Day.

They were irritated, naturally, at the fact that it was Christmas, terribly angry at the audacity of their forsaken nephew who aroused them from their happy lives once again, and slightly relieved at the idea that perhaps him and them would part their ways once and for all, and that Harry Potter would, finally, become just another unmentionable dinner topic to them, like all other things _freakish._

Under the influence of a little magic, they complied magnificently.

_-wizardry-_

The court assembled swiftly and before long, Bartemius Crouch Sr, Harry's distant relative, was ready. Harry was led into the middle of the courtroom, completely different to the ones he had seen on telly with the Dursleys. This one was consisted of a small platform in the centre, from which all other individuals would gaze upon critically, like an arena. Ragnok had reassured him beforehand that there would be no reporters nor cameras and with all spectators present being under an oath of secrecy, no secrets would reach the public either.

That was good. Possibly the only good thing Harry could immediately think of as he made his way to the platform. Rather conveniently, Crouch was situated directly in front of him.

"I was under the impression that this would be a matter of importance," he said, slightly irritated that it was a young, albeit famous boy he faced.

Harry swallowed. "This is, sir."

Crouch leaned forward. "I arrest criminals, boy. Witches and wizards who have committed crimes against other kinds, and worse. Please try not to waste my time."

Harry swallowed again. Crouch was worse, far worse than his sisters combined, worse even than Aunt Cassiopeia or even Lucretia Prewitt. Where they scorned him merely for his blood, Crouch openly taunted Harry for being the Boy-Who-Lived, a position he was sure Crouch thought he had abused.

_Man up, Harry. You didn't come this far just for one man to stop you._

"I wish," Harry Potter finally said, "to divorce my Muggle relatives."

_-wizardry-_

_**Boy-Who-Lived Seeks Emancipation**_

"I can't believe this," McGonagall breathed, "the boy actually did it."

Sprout choked on her egg. "Emancipation?" she echoed. "Against his muggle relatives? The very people who took him in and cared for him for ten years? Whatever for?"

"I was under the impression that only minors of age sixteen and above have the right to file for emancipation," McGonagall said, still in a state of shock. "How has Harry Potter managed at eleven -?"

"Sixteen is often the age requirement required to petition for emancipation in the _Muggle _world, Professor McGonagall," Dumbledore said sadly. "You forget…in the magical world, a child is considered a wizard and thereby eligible for partial emancipation as soon as he receives his acceptance letter to a magical education…It is part of the reason why the Statute of Secrecy ignores magic performed by children who have not received their letters…As of tomorrow, Harry Potter will no longer be considered a child."

_-wizardry-_

"First is the matter of protection," Ragnok, Harry's representative, began. "It was only four months ago when my client encountered the second attempt on ending his life by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The restrictions the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery presents cannot be upheld by a wizard whose very life may be on the line should the Ministry choose to lower his defences. Harry Potter needs to protect himself.

"Second is the matter of guardianship. The responsibility of Harry Potter was placed upon his mother's sister's muggle family, an act with complete disregard to his parents' late wishes as well as that of the Dursley household's. Not only so, it was beyond Albus Dumbledore's legal authority to assign the Boy-Who-Lived to the family of his choice. The decision was spontaneous and no second thoughts were given of the matter.

"As a result, Harry Potter remained completely ignorant of the Wizarding world for ten years, until a Hogwarts teacher came to collect him. He was taught to suppress magic, to hate and fear it, and received treatment of one far below his station."

Crouch raised a hand, halting Ragnok. "I'd like to hear it from _you, _Potter. What so-called unfair treatment could you have possibly received from your relatives?"

This was it. Finally, the time had come. Harry clenched his fists in anticipation. "For ten years, or at least for as long as I can remember, I slept in the cupboard under the stairs. I cooked and cleaned and weeded for the Dursleys. I was told that my parents were stupid drunks who had killed themselves with their stupidity and that it was my greatest fortune to have been taken in by the Dursley household, but beyond all else, every day I heard the same phrase…_ 'there is no such thing as magic.'_"

"I have _always _believed that the Wizarding world is far superior to the Muggle world," Harry continued, pleased at the expressions of shock Crouch and the various other wizards present, "but inferior has never meant cruel. They treated me no better than scum, and when asked where I would go for the school year, they told the world I was going to a reform school. Even for the lowest of human nature, this is not the right way to treat a human being, and they know it."

Around him, the courtroom was dead silent. Even Crouch had turned to give the Dursleys a look of utter disgust. For a moment, Harry bathed in the triumph of finally exposing their cruelty. His only wish was that they could feel the burden of guilt upon their shoulders, rather than being insulated from feeling under whatever enchantments that had subdued them.

Crouch meanwhile nodded. "Continue please, Mister Ragnok."

Not unlike the rest of the courtroom, Ragnok took a moment to collect himself before hurrying on. "Yes. Certainly. As my client mentioned, living a life of servitude and despise is something any boy of such a young age does not deserve. The last matter we hope to raise is Mister Potter's wish to regain control over his assets through emancipation. By this, I mean the priceless artefact that as always travelled down the main Potter line, the fabled Invisibility Cloak."

Once again, whispers broke out.

"Quiet!" Crouch barked. "Mister Ragnok, I was under the impression that the invisibility cloak was but a fairy tale. Unless you have evidence of its existence…?"

Upon command, Ragnok immediately produced a folder, which floated its way into Crouch's hand. Harry knew what it was; the entire list of assets Harry currently owned. On it, Crouch would find the record of the withdrawal of a cloak, ten days before James Potter's first day at Hogwarts.

"The cloak was withdrawn by my client's grandfather, who consequently handed it to his only son, my client's father. By right, the invisibility cloak should be Harry Potter's, but it is currently the possession of Albus Dumbledore."

"Albus Dumbledore?" Crouch repeated.

Outrageous voices broke out around them, half in defence of Dumbledore, the other half condemning his existence.

"Silence!" Crouch roared. "Mister Ragnok, you have yet to convince me that Albus Dumbledore of all wizards is responsible for the theft of the invisibility cloak of the Potter heir."

"This leads to our next claim. A Mister Remus Lupin, close ally of Lily and James Potter, has written a letter in support of my client's petition for emancipation. This document also addresses the issue of Mister Potter's lost invisibility cloak, where he clearly states -"

Crouch silenced Ragnok once again. Harry grimaced at the way Crouch seemed to be treating the goblin, a creature he certainly believed to be below his own station, be kept his thoughts to himself. There was no need to get into an argument over the matter, and certainly not with the judge of his case.

Crouch gestured for the letter, merely skimming over it before handing the thin parchment back to Ragnok.

"It appears that you tell the truth," he remarked. "And where, might I ask, is this Remus Lupin?"

The room hushed as a thin wizard stood up from the very last row of the spectators. Just as Harry had imagined, he was underdressed, overly shabby, overall appearance either implying he was indifferent to the courtroom or his lacking state of finance.

Harry thought the latter.

"I am," the man croaked, looking extraordinarily nervous for an ex-Gryffindor that had boldly written to Harry for nearly an entire term.

"And can you verify that claim?" Crouch said sceptically, clearly, by the expression on his face, doubting his identity.

"I may swear it if you wish."

It seemed enough of a statement to convince Crouch, and the man minutely gestured for Remus Lupin to be brought forth.

The man slowly made his way down onto the platform, staring at Harry with pleading eyes as he walked passed, as if begging him to see reason.

_Yeah, right. _

Lupin stopped, perhaps three feet in front of him.

"Did you, Remus Lupin, write this letter two days previous, addressing to Mister Harry Potter?"

"Yes, but -"

"And were you, Mister Lupin, speaking the truth when you stated that Mister Harry Potter was independent enough to live on his own?"

"I did, but I was -"

"And you also confirmed Harry Potter's suspicions that Albus Dumbledore currently has possession of Harry Potter's invisibility cloak?"

"I did, but _sir, _I didn't -"

"And how did you know Albus Dumbledore had the cloak in his possession?"

Lupin gulped. "J-James told me before he…before he died. I asked Dumbledore about it later, and he confirmed it. Sir, surely you must realise that this entire case is ridiculous!"

Once again, whispers echoed around the room at the man's words. Crouch narrowed his eyes and under the firm inspection of such a formidable man, Lupin cowered.

"_I _will decide whether a case is ridiculous or not," he snapped. "Mister Lupin. Would you deem yourself a close friend of James Potter's? perhaps even the closest friend James Potter had?"

"Without a doubt, yes, your Honour."

"Then why, Mister Lupin, did you distance yourself from his son for ten years straight, without any acknowledgement of the fact that Harry Potter had just become an orphan, he had been placed with his muggle relatives and that he was and still is the son of your closest friend?"

Lupin reddened. Harry smirked. All other faces simply watched in bemusement and fascination.

Then Lupin said, "My…condition makes it…difficult to deal with children, your honour."

Crouch leaned in menacingly. "And what condition is this?"

Lupin looked horrified and incredibly embarrassed. For a moment, as he watched his father's friend being forced into a corner, Harry hesitated. Had he perhaps made a mistake in ousting Lupin? Should he have avoided manipulating the man, all just to achieve his aim?

The time to speak however passed all too soon.

"Lycanthropy," came the whisper. It was a word Harry had seen and read somewhere but at eleven, didn't completely understand the meaning of. It was definitely a magical ailment, but which? For the time being, he was intrigued, but weeks later, he would all too soon forget.

The word, however, worked. It made its way into the ears of every single person in the courtroom, worked its way into the air, tantalising them with whispers and echoes, before being silenced altogether under Crouch's hammer.

"You may sit, Lupin."

Harry realised he had ditched the title 'mister' altogether, and even sneered in disgust at the man.

"Anything else you wish to add, Mister Ragnok?"

Ragnok, completely absorbed in glaring at Lupin, finally turned back and continued. "Harry Potter wishes to take control of his assets. These encompass more than just an invisibility cloak. They also include the Wizengamot seats of the House of Potter and House of Black, both of wish he is by rights a patron to. Both seats are currently under the control of Albus Dumbledore, in the disguise of a _representative. _Dumbledore's position was elected by my client's father, and godfather, not by him. As the current patron and owner of both seats, Mister Potter is finding contradictions between Dumbledore's actions as a representative of both houses and the houses' actual sentiments."

"Bluntly speaking," Crouch interrupted, "are Dumbledore's reforms ones which _you _disagree with, Mister Potter, or what the Blacks you have been sighted to linger around disagree with?"

Harry swallowed.

This was it. This was the moment people like Cassiopeia Black had been waiting for. The moment when Harry could finally take control of his house and make his place in history, or simply place himself in the shadow of greatness. He could either make a stance and say that Dumbledore's actions were against his personal interest and thus take over his seats, or he could say that they were merely words the Blacks had forced into his mouth, for which surely no control over the Wizengamot would be granted.

At this stage, the choice was his – he could still evade it all. Set out what he'd been meaning to accomplish when he agreed to enter the Wizarding world. Leave behind the mess and distance himself from the action. Lead a simple, undisturbed, peaceful life. Just be Harry.

Unfortunately, some heroes are just that – heroes.

_Your destiny, Potter, is unavoidable. You are _destined _to walk this path… _Snape's words in Diagon Alley seemed to ring true, and in an instant, a decision was made.

Cassiopeia Black was right. It _was _a great honour to be the patron of two seats in the Wizengamot at eleven. But firstly, Harry was _eleven_. it meant he had school, homework and above all else, Quidditch. Second, having two seats didn't make your voice heard twice as much as having one. If real change needed to happen, it would happen, fairly without the advantage of two seats owned by an eleven-year-old.

Potter was his, without a doubt. But Black would need a representative.

"_I _disagree, sir," he strangely felt himself answering. "I am young, sir. It's true. But I _can _tell the difference between representation and abuse. I'm not asking for the Black seat to be mine, but don't I at least deserve a say in who the _rightful _representative of Black should be?"

Crouch was intrigued. "And who _do _you believe this rightful representative should be, Mister Potter?"

Harry smirked. Crouch might be an outcast in Pureblood society, might be hated and condemned by the other Blacks for turning his back on them, but above all, he was a Slytherin and Slytherins saw the benefit in everything they did. "An ideal representative," he said, "is someone who is fair and maintains his patrons' requests to his utmost capability. Someone who is part of the family, a true Black. Someone able to take the steps necessary to achieve his ends. Someone determined, stubborn, cruel when he must be, respected, clearly _sane…_" Harry paused for effect. "Someone like _you, _sir."

Crouch gave him a look. It was one that chilled him to the bone, even more than anything else the man had sent at him. A look that told him Crouch was expert at reading between the lines and clearly knew what he was doing. Harry, however, didn't back down. Crouch was fair, unshaken by corruption, but definitely ambitious. He knew, without a doubt, that at the slightest hint of greatness, Crouch would help.

"There is also the matter of residence," Crouch finally said. "Bear in mind, Mister Potter, that it was only four months ago when the spirit of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named attacked you and attempted to take your life for the second time. It is not safe to live unattended and isolated. You may be emancipated, but you are still eleven years old."

Harry smirked, knowing full well he had prepared for this very moment. "That will pose no problem," he said indifferently, "I have two people willing to vouch for me. My great-aunt Cassiopeia Black, and my Head of House at Hogwarts, Professor Severus Snape."

The audience spluttered.

The only one who seemed even the slightest indifferent was Crouch, who surveyed Harry pensively before saying, "and they are accommodating, I trust?"

"Only the best," Ragnok responded. "Model citizens with well-established public images. Their conduct will no doubt be under the scrutiny of much media attention."

Crouch nodded, looking like he couldn't care less. "It seems, then, Mister Potter," he drawled, "that your case is now closed. We issue you with full emancipation, including the rights to all your assets and the use of magic outside of magical premises. There is, of course, one last thing we need to deal with..."

Courtroom eyes followed where Crouch seemed to have directed his attention: The Dursleys.

What proceeded in the next ten minutes was probably the most memorable ten minutes in Harry Potter's eleven-year life.

_-wizardry-_

Hogwarts was in turmoil. Breakfast may have long ended but the school staff, fixated in their seats, was unable to let go of the _Daily Prophet _that accounted Harry Potter's fight for emancipation in utter detail.

"Dumbledore," Flitwick squealed. "Surely you must be able to do _something. _This is _outrageous. _Emancipation at eleven years of age, merely three months into the school year…ridiculous. Crouch would be delusional as to grant him independence."

"Furthermore," Sprout spluttered out in utter disbelief, "it says here that Harry Potter has been living with his closest magical relatives, the Blacks, since the _start_ _of the Christmas holidays_."

Of the Hogwarts staff, only Severus Snape remained silent that day.

_-wizardry-_

At the same time on the other side of Britain, Harry Potter was having the time of his life.

On Christmas Day, Malfoy greeted him with a look as close to worship a Malfoy could have without seeming pathetic. "You were right, Potter. That _was unforgettable. Do you have any idea how much trouble you'll be in when we go back to Hogwarts?"_

Harry smirked. "What's the worse they can do – expel me? Hogwarts _isn't _the only Wizarding school out there, you know. I can always turn to Durmstrang if worse comes to worst."

His indifference had certainly managed to capture Draco's admiration, for the Malfoy scion quickly ushered him in and informed him that his forgetfulness (and lateness) was forgiven, and that no present need be bought.

"I mean, I _am _kind of disappointed you won't be getting me a present, but reading the front page of the_ Daily Prophet _seems satisfying enough these days," he shrugged, trying to imitate Harry's blasé attitude.

Harry smirked. "Don't delude yourself, Malfoy. You know you want your present."

Malfoy blinked, a pleased grin slowly edging its sly way onto his face. "Good. You _did _get me a present. I suppose I can give you mine with no regrets then."

Finally, Malfoy led him onto the Malfoy Manor Quidditch Pitch, where the others had all gathered.

"Flying, Potter. Ought to cheer you up. Unfortunately, Flint declined his invitation. I was informed, in the politest of terms, that there would be a _clash of interests, _should both of you attend."

Harry shivered at his friend's delight.

"No need to worry, Potter," Blaise said cheerfully as he and the others flew down from the sky. "I was informed from a rather reliable source that Marcus Flint will _not _be graduating this year. His academic results have been rather lacking, but thankfully, he has maintained that he _will _remain Quidditch captain, just for you."

The others laughed at Blaise's jeer, obviously still slightly put off by Harry's earlier mistake.

Harry scowled.

"On a much duller note," Millicent spoke up, "nice going getting that emancipation rumour on the front page. I almost convinced myself you were petitioning for real."

The others sent her a look of extreme disbelief.

"You'd better start convincing yourself again, Bulstrode," Harry told her with a grin. "As of now, I'm considered an adult."

Millicent's jaw dropped. "I should have known," she said. "You're Harry Potter. Of _course _the impossible happens for you."

The entire matter was soon forgotten for the remainder of the day. Harry's presents were handed out soon after dinner and everyone naturally loved their gifts.

Daphne and Pansy just about smothered Harry with affection. He had purchased purchased them the lastest perfume of the _Amor _line that had weeks before being officially released.

"How on Earth did you pull this one off?" Daphne said, as if Harry's gift was even moreimpossible than surviving the Killing Curse.

Harry, to their general exasperation, winked.

Millicent had been pleased with her gifts, Blaise slightly surprised at having been given a gold watch.

"Never took you for much of a shopper, Potter," Blaise mused.

Malfoy snorted. "This has Aunt Cassiopeia written all over it."

He was right. It was under his great-aunt's disapproving guidance that he found something Blaise could accept. "I suppose we must remember next time to _be early, _and not _late," _she had said, meeting his sheepish face with a stern one.

"You're living with Cassiopeia Black?" Blaise said, incredulous. "The same madwoman who supposedly yelled at old Archie's funeral? Merlin, how did you end up with _her?"_

Harry grinned. He had found himself asking the very question so many times. Why _was _it that of all people, it was Aunt Cassiopeia he chose to live with? Callidora Longbottom was bearable, not to mention far nicer. Remus Lupin would've helped out in a heartbeat. Probably even living with Professor Snape should have been at the forefront of his choices, and not her. And yet…Cassiopeia Black was his closest Black relative. She was crazy, she was _demented _but she also understood him, and in hindsight, he realised she was the only one who recognised the need for the Boy-Who-Lived to live up to his image.

That was ideologically speaking. Actually, living with Aunt Cass was better than living with Aunt Petunia – and worse.

For one, Aunt Petunia expected Harry to be the stupidest boy in the class – Cassiopeia always, _always _demanded the best out of him. Aunt Cass's rule was that "no commoner of marks any lower than straight O's will stay in my house." It was therefore decided that in return for the shelter and food during the school breaks, Harry would have to be at an academic frontier of no lesser than third in the grade.

This was good – Harry was given an incentive to study hard for once. It was also bad – Hermione Granger may be annoying, buck-toothed, Muggle-born, but it was a fact universally acknowledged that she was the smartest witch in the entire school. That left second and third place – Harry would have to compete with his classmates, certainly Draco, whose father had standards about as sky-high as Aunt Cass's, probably Blaise, whose gargantuan ego couldn't possibly allow him to live with the fact that yes, there were those who were smarter than him, and of course, the entire Ravenclaw first-years.

"No lesser than third place," Cassiopeia reminded him every day after breakfast, where the first thing she did was lock him in the library. "An inchbelow and I swear to Merlin I will bequeath this house to my niece."

Knowing the extent of the Black family tree and having met the majority of the Blacks, it didn't take much for Harry to figure her threat was probably _threatening_.

Then there were the living conditions. Harry was given his own chambers, which included a bedroom, a bathroom, a study and a mini potions lab. Everything was luxurious, ornate, and Black. Almost _too _luxurious. Perhaps living under the stairs had familiarised him with small, compact environments, for Harry found he just _couldn't _get used to the idea of living in such grandeur.

Cassiopeia Black's household was also completely devoid of silence. The room next to him contained a charmed piano that played ghostly music well into the dead of the night, and while Harry didn't actually mind listening to it half the time, there were moments when he just wished whomever playing could stop.

"Can't you give it a rest?" He begged the second day in Cassiopeia's house. "That piano's been banging for decades now. It's getting out of tune."

Cass gave him a stern look. "She'll play when she wants to play, boy, and you better let her."

Harry had long learned not to argue with his aunt.

During the day, the piano seldom played, except for perhaps very early every morning and once before late afternoon tea. To make up for the remaining gaps of quiet, Aunt Cass had a large portrait in the family room that spread across the expanse of an entire wall, completely dedicated to a choir of mermaids who would take it upon themselves to torture Harry with their singing. Hear, the excuse was that, "Mermish is a language many talented wizards are familiar with. Learn it."

Harry longed to tell her it just wasn't that simple. People of the world had talent. Bartemius Crouch, for example, spoke over one hundred and fifty languages. McGonagall could transfigure into a cat. Harry Potter's talent, whatever it may be, clearly did _not _lie in linguistics.

It the present time, Draco Malfoy had opened his present. "Holy Merlin!"

The others watched with admiration but little envy, what with Draco being the only Quidditch fanatic. Draco, however, was beside himself.

"I can't believe this. Now they'll _have _to have me on the Quidditch team," Draco said triumphantly.

Blaise sniggered. "I don't suppose you got one for yourself, Harry?"

Harry shrugged. "And One is their latest, of course, but mine isn't exactly an old model. I'd rather wait a few years for an even better broom."

Harry's own gifts were just as brilliant, from Draco's borderline Dark Arts books on curses, defence strategies, and a mind-magic called Occlumency, Blaise's luxury set of robes and – strangely enough – a hat he claimed looked much better than Harry's current ensemble, Daphne's luxury broom-maintenance set that included a collection of strong anti-breakage spells guaranteed to withstand from dragons to flying trees (Harry wasn't quite sure where either could be applied), Pansy's shrinkable, portable and extra-light bookshelf and Millicent's elaborate owl cage charmed with a twenty-feat radius flying space capacity for Hedwig in her confinement. Even Crabbe and Goyle's presents of dragon-skin boots and gloves had impressed him.

Ron, Harry was informed, had politely sent everyone a grand total of three chocolate frogs.

"I hear his mother hands them out like rations at Christmas," Draco sniggered.

Harry smirked. "And did _you _get him anything Draco?"

Draco sneered but Daphne seemed impressed. "Acting your legal age now, Harry?"

"Someone has to."

"I suppose you'll be participating in the Wizengamot now, what with two seats," Blaise said matter-of-factly.

Harry grinned. "I'm the patron, and emancipation forces me to take control of all my assets, including my seats, not to mention I'm the only Potter alive. But that doesn't mean I don't get to choose a representative for Black at least."

Draco shivered. "Aunt Cassiopeia?"

Harry briefly imagined the outcome. "Really, Malfoy?"

"Callidora Longbottom," he guessed again.

"Good choice, but no."

"Don't tell me…_Remus Lupin?"_

Harry sent Pansy a look. "A _Black_ relative_, _Parkinson."

"_Crouch Senior?" _Draco had finally figured it out, only to treat this piece of information with even more incredulity than Pansy's guess.

"Harry, you can't be serious – haven't you met the Crouch sisters? The rest of us Blacks, we shun them because we reject _him. _The reason half the family tree is missing is _because of him. _He threw his own blood into Azkaban prison. Not even _Dumbledore _has done that. Do you _want _to isolate yourself from the Blacks before you've even met half of them?"

"I know," said Harry, "believe me, I do. But who am _I, _Draco? I'm the bleeding Boy-Who-Lived, _and _a half-blood. That's hardly any better in their book. Crouch isn't an idiot, he's familiar with his politics, he's got a lot of respect outside of Black, not to mention he's known for being fair…"

"What did Aunt Cassiopeia say?" Draco continued angrily. "I can't believe she let you get away with this."

Draco didn't know half of it. "She wasn't happy, naturally, but when I reasoned that I'll still have the Potter seat to attend to, not to mention I _can _withdraw his power over Black any time now that I'm legally an adult…Draco, he's going to listen to the needs of the house of Black. I just know it."

Draco stared at him unfathomably. "What _I _know," he said slowly, "is that he personally placed three relatives of mine in Azkaban."

Harry clenched his teeth. "I _do _know how to read. He put his own _son _in Azkaban for the same crime, Draco."

"His own blood," Draco stressed.

Harry scoffed. "Can you believe it? There's actually a difference between nepotism and competence." Draco reddened. "Sometimes Draco, what matters is doing the right thing."

They were young. That was the first problem. In time, Draco and the others would forget only too soon the importance of Harry Potter's words. The second was the fact that no friendship lasted forever. In time, the inevitable would occur, sides would be taken and the lot of them would split. That was the way these things went.

Their first Christmas together, though, was spent in safe ignorance. Draco and Harry both tried their best to maintain the dangerous balance of friendship and politics and a falling-out was temporarily avoided.

In the years to come, they wouldn't be so lucky.

_-wizardry-_

On the second day of the new year, Albus Dumbledore lost his place as Chief Warlock on the Wizengamot council.

Due to a number of contributing factors, Bartemius Crouch Senior was appointed his successor.

The first decree he sanctioned was the Educational Decree Twenty – No witch or wizard is allowed employed in any magical educational facility e.g. Hogwarts without undergoing a full background check, validating their competence, sanity and safe affiliations.

_-wizardry-_

"Chocolate frogs. Tonight, after dinner."

Those were the first words Snape said to Harry Potter as Hogwarts greeted her rowdy students returning from their brief hiatus.

Words of Harry's emancipation had naturally spread into the ears of every student, and as usual, they had taken to staring at him with a combination of fear, awe, outrage and puzzlement. A term of constant attention could make even the shyest of wizards accustomed to being in the spotlight and Harry acted his part perfectly. So far, about four people had walked up to him, demanding to know whether or not the _Daily Prophet_'s accuracy could be relied upon.

It seemed, after the news of Dumbledore's integrity (or lack thereof), of Harry Potter's newly appointed representative and consequently Dumbledore's loss of position, after the revelation of the Potter family being the official owner of the Cloak of Invisibility and Dumbledore being the thief, after the news of the Boy-Who-Lived's current family being the Blacks of all relatives, even after hearing the gossip of Harry's latest purchase of a Nimbus Two Thousand and One, that Harry Potter was the only topic of gossip the Hogwarts students had. All others had faded in comparison. As Harry briefly glanced at every table, noting that nothing much had changed. Except for Hermione Granger's fervent expressions as she communicated to a terrified Longbottom, the two finally having found a friend in each other, the holidays had seemed surreal, a dream that had never occurred in reality. Harry surveyed the High Table, particularly where Dumbledore sat. The man looked as solemn as ever.

"Excellent," he said as soon as Snape was out of hearing range.

Daphne snorted. "Only Harry Potter can ever say that about visiting the Headmaster's office."

Millicent looked amused. "What evil scheme have you got rolled up your sleeve _now, _Potter?"

Harry only winked, something his fellow classmates had learnt from past experience to treat with caution and fear. "No scheme, Millicent. The poor man's earned his share of grief."

The others regarded him disbelievingly.

"Well go on then," Blaise said impatiently, "impress us with your wisdom."

Harry grinned, ignoring the jibe. "I'm about to get a belated Christmas present from Albus Dumbledore."

_-wizardry-_

Naturally, anywhere Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter went, the staff of Hogwarts must also be. Harry entered his office fully aware of this and the sight of all his professors gathered around Dumbledore's desk did nothing to surprise him.

Albus Dumbledore was angry. That was the first thing Harry realised. The second was that of the entire Hogwarts staff, three people were missing – Argus Filch, the crazy Divinations teacher Trelawney and Professor Snape.

"Harry," Dumbledore enunciated when it became evident that Harry wasn't going to say anything. "Words cannot begin to describe my shock when I read of your estrangement from the Dursleys on the _Daily Prophet. _It was I who placed you there, my boy. Your emancipation makes me feel as if it was the wrong decision."

Harry shrugged. "What are you after sir, reassurance that everything you have done was all for the greater good? Even when everyone in this room knows that is a lie?"

The teachers, McGonagall especially, frowned at Harry's apparent rudeness but didn't say anything.

"You have made many, many bad decisions this holiday, Harry," Dumbledore continued, paying no heed to Harry's words. "Of all methods of action you could have taken to punish your relatives and leave them…do you truly believe emancipation was the right path? The Dursleys, the one link you had to the Muggle world, will be gone forever. Your responsibilities as an adult will magnify exponentially. You embarrassed your father's friend by forcing him into a situation he was not comfortable with. You divulged family secrets to a roomful of people…secrets that would have made your ancestors turn about their graves knowing they were uttered to at least a crowd of a hundred strangers. I am disappointed in you, Harry."

Harry stared at his headmaster, unable to believe the man was actually attempting to guilt him. "Professor," he said, "you do realise none of it would have been necessary had you simply returned the cloak, long-due by now by the way, back to its actual owner? Think about it – it's a priceless, _legendary_ article, one that's been missing from my inventory for over ten years. The goblins at Gringotts had full right to disclose its existence before the court."

Naturally, he had practiced those words many, many times under the instruction of his great-aunt. Amongst the Hogwarts staff, it produced an overall effect of outrage and indignation.

"Mister Potter, surely you aren't accusing the Headmaster of _stealing _the Cloak," McGonagall said, insulted on Dumbledore's behalf.

"Your father entrusted his cloak to me, Harry. He let me borrow it -"

"For more than ten years? Sir, would you have even given it back had I not asked for it?"

Even Sprout looked affronted.

"You are young," Dumbledore said, in a tone that suggested he had said the phrase many, many times before. "The cloak is of incredible value -"

"That's what having a vault in the safest place in the world is for, _Professor."_

Around them, the others watched, heads turning from Dumbledore to Harry to Dumbledore, then back to Harry.

"You do not need me to tell you that even Gringotts is not completely safe," Dumbledore said calmly after a moment's pause.

Harry scoffed. "And I suppose the desk drawer in the Hogwarts Headmaster's office is?"

Harry had done it. He had tickled the sleeping dragon too many times and now, it was finally awake. Dumbledore was enraged.

"I protected it Harry, personally and secretly. For ten years until _you_ divulged its existence to the ears of the Wizarding world. Centuries of secrecy…wasted! All for what? A moment of fleeting glory? Short-lived victory? I understand that you are eleven, my boy, and it is simply too much to demand of you as much as I, _we _as citizens of this world have done…but surely, surely you would have thought to talk to me. Surely you would have bothered."

Harry scoffed. "Professor, there is no reason for you to be this upset over a simple cloak. Much less, _my _cloak. Seeing as it is my property, _I_ should be the one worrying over it. Which reminds it…may I have it back, seeing as it _is _rightfully mine?"

Silence filled the Headmaster's office. For a moment, all that could be heard was the gentle sound of Fawkes as he pecked at his food-basin. Then Dumbledore sighed. "I cannot keep from you what is by all means yours," he said tiredly.

Then he opened the second drawer of his desk as pulled out a parcel. "Initially, I wanted to give this to you anonymously as a Christmas present," he said. "But when I realised that I could not give it to you moments after the _Daily Prophet _released its articles without making it seem like an act of guilt, I decided to hand it to you myself, face to face."

_As you should have done, _Harry added silently. _You're the greatest coward Gryffindor has ever received, Professor._

"A belated Merry Christmas if you will, Harry." Not for the first time, Dumbledore sounded his age.

Harry nodded, taking the parcel but refusing to say thank you. At the door, he paused, turning round to see every teacher in the room, living and portrait, staring at him with an intense curiosity that conveyed to him the vague feeling of being scrutinised.

"Would I ever have known?"

Dumbledore stared at him, unmoving.

"That you sent me the Cloak," Harry added impatiently. "Would I have ever known it was you?"

Dumbledore smiled sadly, perhaps finally acknowledging that between some people, some perfectly fine people, their differences were just too great to ignore and it would render the chance of either every understanding the other impossible. Some such as them.

"Eventually, I would have."

_-wizardry-_

"…and once again, Slytherin wins the House Cup!"

The Slytherin table burst into cheers at the face of yet another year of unprecedented victory. Harry grinned at the sight of such joy at his table – and at the misery of the Gryffindors. Even Ron was clapping.

"Professor Snape has also informed me to remind you all that this is also Slytherin house's greatest victory," Dumbledore added, in an awfully jovial voice that made Harry suspect something was up. "And while these things must be cherished, one must remember that there are always greater things in life than the sheer joy of winning."

Harry rolled his eyes, unable to hate Dumbledore for attempting to dampen his mood.

"Before we conclude tonight's assembly, I would like to hand out a few last-minute points. Yes, let's see…"

Harry's face froze. _Dumbledore, don't you dare ruin my good mood today._

"First, to Hermione Granger for an extraordinarily detailed letter that recounted the numerous perils she faced on the forbidden Third Floor. To all of you, it should act as a warning - that entering is, indeed, at one's own risk of likely death. Miss Granger's letter informed the staff of many areas that would undergo further improvement over the summer holidays in order to make the Third Floor even _more _dangerous…" Dumbledore's eyes _twinkled. _"And for her brilliant insight, I award her sixty points."

Christ. The girl just about _fainted _with glee. All around him, Slytherins glared and grimaced.

"Second, to Neville Longbottom, who ingeniously mentioned that while the Devil's Snare particularly enjoys darkness, it still requires sufficient supplies of water to remain damp and consequently healthy, particularly if it is to have enough strength to strangle full-grown men without faltering in the presence of light. An issue I do believe none of the staff considered…twenty points, my boy."

Gryffindor's cheers filled the entire hall. Longbottom looked seconds away from wetting himself with joy. Unsurprisingly, the Gryffindors, who moments earlier came second to an undefeatable Slytherin, were now tied being first.

"I have a third mention today before Gryffindor and Slytherin celebrate."

The Great Hall hushed in anticipation.

"No man is perfect, no child too young. No one is too evil, nor too good. No hatred is too great, nor love too weak. In the year I have had the privilege of knowing this remarkable individual, I have come to realise that I have overestimated and underestimated not only him but all of you countless times, too many times, until I forgot who it was I was overanalysing and underanalysing – children. You, all of you, are the future of our society, the hope of our past. You are forever changing, growing, developing, becoming wiser, taller, stronger. I see how far all of you have come today, to this very point in time…and I am proud, so proud to see you all. Let us cherish this fleeting moment of childhood and think back to this day, when in the future despair strikes us and we are on the brink of forgetting, in doubt of our strengths and capabilities. Let us remember that as children, we had time and hope and faith."

The Great Hall was silent. The students were caught between thinking their Headmaster had finally gone crazy and actually making something out of his words. Harry, observing at his friends until he'd caught their hesitant glances, smiled a raised his glass. "To childhood, my friends," he said. Around him, people echoed his cheer.

Dumbledore wasn't finished. "It is therefore out of respect and thanks that I mention the third person I feel deserves recognition. Harry Potter."

The hall was silent. Time, Harry swore, bloody stopped.

Every eye turned to him.

It was a commonly-known fact that Harry Potter hated Albus Dumbledore with a fierce and burning passion. Not only so, but Albus Dumbledore was a Gryffindor who clearly favoured his house over its rival_. Either Dumbledore has truly lost what was left of his sanity, or the man's trying to win some faith._

"I award Slytherin with one hundred house points."

Three things happened shortly after.

First, Slytherin burst into deafening cheer that emulated a war.

Second, Hermione Granger fainted from the impact.

Third, Marcus Flint _hugged _him.

_This world has indeed gone barmy…_

_-wizardry-_

"See you, Potter!"

"Yeah, bye Harry!

"Don't you dare forget to practice, Potter. Just because you have raw talent -"

"Yes, yes, that doesn't mean I won't ever be knocked off my broom by flying trees, or Dementors, or Merlin know what's out there still. Calm yourself Flint. I'll practise. _Twice _daily."

The nearby students sniggered at Harry's comment. Flint nodded in approval before heading over to his parents, a grim couple that reminded Harry of Flint just before every Quidditch match.

"I imagine his summer will be lovely," Blaise remarked dryly. "The Flints aren't pleased with their son needing to stay a grade, obviously."

Harry smiled, exchanging last-minute farewells with his friends.

"We _will _meet up again, the lot of us, won't we?"

Draco grinned. "'Course. What with me being on the Quidditch team next year, you and I _definitely _need to find time to practise a couple moves, Potter. Just to keep the Gryffindors on their toes."

Daphne rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "Trust you boys to think of that."

"Talking about keeping Gryffindors on their toes…" Blaise grinned slyly, gesturing behind them.

The lot of them glanced slyly in the general direction, with the exception of Pansy and Draco, who scoffed loudly and exaggeratedly. There was Ron Weasley, looking far more satisfied than the Gryffindor brothers that surrounded him…and of course, the little sister whose eyes enlarged into saucers at the sight of him staring.

Jenny, or whatever her name was, turned scarlet.

Pansy's eyes bubbled with mirth. "Harry, you simply _must _go over there and wish the Weasleys a good summer."

Harry smirked in reply, making his way over to crowd of red, well aware of the increasing loudness of laughter behind him. As he approached, Jenny Weasley looked seconds from combusting.

Ron _finally _turned around to see him. "Potter," he nodded somewhat civilly. "What do you want?"

His mother gasped. "Ron!"

She sounded scandalised by his behaviour and Harry couldn't bring himself to tell her this was Ron Weasley at his weakest. Instead, he shrugged innocently. "I just wanted to say goodbye. Have a nice summer, Ron. You too, Fred and George."

The twins viewed him suspiciously before nodding.

"Thank you, Harry dear," the mother said, clearly pleased. "You may come visit us any time you wish. I'm sure our family would be delighted to hear from you."

For the twins and Percy, 'delighted' was the last word Harry could think of to describe their reaction.

"Thanks Mrs Weasley," he said politely, "I appreciate your hospitality. Of _course _I'll find some way to visit you all this summer. Ron only has to send me your address."

Ron sighed, loudly. "Alright, I will. Let's get a move on, mum. It was awesome talking to you, Harry. I'll see you at sch – I mean, in the holidays. Goodbye."

The redheads scuttled away, not before the youngest managed to squeeze in one last, yearning glance at him. Harry smirked as he caught Mrs Weasley's reprimand.

"Honestly, Ron, you really disappoint me sometimes. Harry seems like a perfectly nice boy…"

"That's the problem mum, he _seems _like one."

"Ronald Weasley…"

His friends crowded around him, wheezing with laughter and glee.

"That was hilarious," Daphne congratulated.

"I could _marry _you, Harry Potter!" Pansy declared loudly, turning several heads.

Blaise sniggered. "What and break Drakie-poo's heart?" Pansy glared venomously. "Potter, you legend. Now you simply _have _to convert the youngest into Slytherin before her brothers convince her you're evil."

Millicent rolled her eyes. "Let's not think out of spite. Would two Weasleys actually do _good _to Slytherin or not? One of them is more than enough."

The congregation paused for a moment before shivering in disgust. Harry meanwhile grinned. "Good to see nothing has changed after a year."

Soon, it was their turn to hurry off the platform. A wizened old guard stood near the ticket barrier, letting them go through the gate in twos and threes so as to not attract attention by bursting out of a solid wall all at once and alarming the Muggles.

Draco grinned one last time before hurrying off with his parents. "Don't forget to write, Potter. You'd better teach me that Wronski Feint you did with the Hufflepuffs."

Blaise patted him on the back, shouting one last "see you Potter!" before leaving too.

Pansy and Daphne both hugged him, promising to send over any flattering articles about him in any magazines they read.

"Keep growing this summer Potter," Pansy reminded him seriously. "We girls like our men _tall. _It's your one area of weakness."

Nott gave Harry a quick nod and the hint of a smile. "See you in September, Potter."

One by one, his friends left and the station became less and less crowded. Before long, it was just Harry, his trunk, an owl…and Professor Snape.

Harry blinked.

"Yes Potter, it's me," Snape said impatiently. "Your great-aunt is unable to pick you up personally, and has asked me to do so instead."

Harry nodded. Snape stood out sorely amongst the crowd of Muggles in his pure-black attire and stern countenance. He was the epitome of evil to every Muggle mind that saw him, but Harry trusted him, unequivocally. He followed his head of house away from the train station without another word, dragging his luggage behind him. It was only when Snape turned sharply into a deserted ally ten minutes later that he thought to ask his professor just what their mode of transport was.

"Portkey today, Potter," Snape answered as he took out a familiar-looking brooch. "Grab hold of this and it will take you directly into the living room of your aunt's home. Try not to let go until you reach your destination, unless you wish to die or retain serious injury. Keep onto this Portkey for transport back to the train station. Have a nice summer.'

The next few seconds of Harry Potter's life became a whirlwind of colour, magic and might. Harry felt a tug on his navel, like a hook that pulled him to his destination, and an instant later he was back in the home of this great-aunt, just as Snape had said he would.

He sighed, taking a moment to catch his breath before dropping the brooch on the living room table.

Something had changed since the last time he was here. There was silence, utter silence where once there was music. The only thing he could hear was the echoing sound of his own footsteps as he made his way across the polished wooden floor. He vaguely wondered where his aunt was, then remembered that it was about time for dinner and headed for the dining room.

"Who the bloody hell are you and what the bloody hell are you doing here?"

Harry, shaken out of his thoughts, whirled round, wand halfway out of his pocket before he realised, in shock, that the owner of the question was a young girl, glaring furiously at him.

"I'm Harry," he said, awkwardly feeling like a child caught in the act of stealing. "I'm here for dinner with my great-aunt Cass."

The girl glared and hissed. Harry noticed, at a second glance, that she possessed all the features of a Black – temper, black hair and grey eyes, a certain sense of beauty which he supposed would either bloom or wilt with the coming of maturity, and yes, her sneer.

"You're Harry Potter!"

It wasn't out of awe, surprise or general shock that she said these well-uttered words. No, she spoke out of hatred. If there was one thing Harry did know, it was that whoever this girl was and for whatever reason she was living in Cassiopeia's household, she utterly _loathed _him.

"Yes," he said, taking it all in very calmly, "I am. And, you are?"

Harry Potter wasn't arrogant. But if there was ever a moment when he wished he sounded less like the fame his title of 'Boy-Who-Lived' suggested, it was this. The girl, nearly half a head taller than him (which didn't do much to help his case), sneered even further, a feat Harry hadn't known was possible, until now.

"_Not _a _half_-blood residing in _my_ great-aunt's manor," she spat.

Harry scowled. Yet another prejudiced, quick-tempered Black. It was people like these that made Harry question Aunt Cass's vehement declaration that _'no worthy Black has ever not been Sorted into Slytherin house'. _He wondered just how many of them had succeeded in convincing the Sorting Hat that Gryffindor was out of the option. _What do you know – perhaps the two houses aren't as different as how they wish they were, after all._

"Oi! I'm speaking to you. Stop wondering off. Focus!"

Harry, whilst contemplating the Black legacy deeply, had subconsciously drifted away, towards the general direction of the kitchen. The spoilt girl, however, had turned indignant at his dismissal. He turned and gave the Black an incredulous look.

"What's the matter? I thought I wasn't worthy of your company?"

It was, apparently, not the wisest thing to say, for Black's features twisted from mere hatred to suggesting brutal murder, to the point where Harry contemplated running should her eyes begin to shoot curses at him. He was pretty sure the ends of her hair were beginning to singe too.

"S-sorry! Continue," he muttered, slightly uncertain what he should do next.

"As I was _saying," _the girl continued, speaking in a self-absorbed manner that made him think of Daphne and Pansy, only intensified, _"I _am Cassiopeia Black."

Harry digested this information in strides. His initial urge to protest that there already _was _a Cassiopeia Black and one far older than her was absorbed by the simultaneous realisation that the Blacks weren't a very creative bunch and thus the family tree held a noticeably large amount of repetitions. There was something like two Arcturus Blacks and three Sirius Blacks. It _did, _however, make Harry think just what _this _Cassiopeia Black's parents had done in the past to name their daughter after his great-aunt of all people.

"_You are not paying attention!"_

Harry blinked. At the same time, he also inwardly swore he'd be nicer to Pansy and Daphne for the rest of his life.

"My great-grandfather was Pollux Black, thus making Cassiopeia Black _my_ great-aunt."

Harry nodded, vaguely remembering Draco saying something similar. Then he swallowed, coming to a rather terrifying realisation.

"You're the closest relative I have of my generation," he exclaimed, "excluding Draco Malfoy, of course."

If it had been his weak attempt at salvaging for any familial relations, he bitterly failed. Cassiopeia Black sniffed. "Pity the same can't be said about you, seeing as _both _my parents were purebloods."

Harry was beginning to feel a vague sense of deja vu. His first meeting with Aunt Cass had just about made his stomach turn in the same way, and any tolerance he had towards this girl, the other Cass, was draining rapidly.

"Well, it's been nice meeting you," he said quickly, wanting to get out of the situation as soon as possible before another verbal war between him and a Black arose. "I'll be heading out to dinner now and -"

"Good," Cassiopeia said snobbishly, "we can go together."

Numbly, Harry followed the girl as she made her way to the dining room without sparing another glance. He wondered what her deal was. How could anyone be so arrogant, so self-absorbed and so utterly _Black? _It just wasn't possible. Surely, the girl knew who he was, surely being Harry Potter, or at least the master of the Black and Potter Wizengamot seats meant something to her.

Dinner was, in one word, awkward. For someone who believed half-bloods to be beneath her, Cassiopeia Black wasted an enormous quantity of her time and attention glaring at Harry. Harry, on the other hand, futilely attempted to pretend his cousin simply didn't exist, eyes fixated hypnotically on his meal.

Great-aunt Cass, unfortunately, _adored _her niece.

"Your left hand has improved splendidly, my dear," she drawled. "I do believe I am beginning to distinguish your nocturnes from the others'. You play the ornaments fluently; it is truly delightful to listen."

His cousin naturally took it all in which a smug expression plastered across her face, her only other expression apart from anger and distain, it seemed. "Thank you, Auntie," she said delicately. Of course, nothing can ever be achieved without practice. That, and natural talent, of course."

Harry was slowly going insane.

"Do you hear that, boy?" Aunt Cass said sharply, not unlike Petunia when it came to her darling Duddiekins. "Practice. You naturally have the talent. I don't want to hear a single defeat in your Quidditch career, especially not when Slytherin house's pride is on the line."

Harry, caught between recounting his adventures with Flint to his audience in testimony of his dedication and hexing the two Cassiopeias, struggled to keep silent. By the time dinner was finished and Aunt Cass had departed, Harry was toppling over the brink of insanity.

"Harry Potter," the oblivious Cousin Cass continued to sneer as the two of them made their way back to their separate rooms. "Of all the Wizarding households that would have gladly taken you in, why this? Why Black? You must be mental if you think any of us actually _want _you to exist. The Malfoys would love to parade you round, especially in public…cowards the lot of them. The Longbottoms, what with one heir, would've spared room for another. Even the _Weasleys _would've taken you in with more welcome. What was it about the Blacks that made you choose _us_, out of all others, to disrupt whatever sense of normality we had? My relatives are cowards. They never dare to say what is between the lines, so I'll spell it out for you: You. Don't. Belong. You never will, as long as half of your blood runs tainted, as long as you remain a Half-Blood. Half-Muggle. Aunt Cassiopeia is the only relative I know who dares to take me in, so don't even _attempt _to steal her away from me, just like you did everything else!"

Harry Potter had never felt so wronged. Forget Dumbledore, even _Snape _at least treated him with a contempt that was somewhat explainable. But Cassiopeia Black? It was one thing to hate someone because they were a Half-blood, but to accuse them of stealing something, or in Cassiopeia's words "everything else" was an accusation Harry just could _not _take.

"Look," he said, impatience shining through, "you might not know this so I'll say it simply. There's a difference between being great and being greatness. You might think you're king of the world because you're a Black, you're a pureblood and there's not many of you out there, but let me tell you now – to the rest of us, you're just an annoying, spoilt little girl and if you don't start acting like you actually _deserve _the name of Black, then I suggest you shut up, get lost, and stop ordering me around."

And then, because Harry Potter never did say he was a Gryffindor, he ran for his life, locked himself into his room for the rest of the day, and didn't come out until the blasted piano started playing again in the room next door.

For the rest of his summer holidays, he never saw her again, and out of puzzlement, convinced himself that Cassiopeia Black the Second was but the ghost of a relative, unable to be ignored for the moment but ultimately forgettable. The fact she had participated at the dining table soon became a figment of his imagination, and as the music once again enveloped Cassiopeia Black's home, she ceased to exist altogether.

Unfortunately for him, he was wrong. Very wrong.

Notes:

A lot of you are probably wondering: _Who is this Cassiopeia Black? _

Harry Potter's fifth year made me realise just how unfamiliar and uncomfortable he was with the idea of girls. The entire routine with Cho made me think, 'Jesus. I get that my characters are growing up, but couldn't Harry have at least _known _how to act around a girl that's not his mate before he decided to like one?' And thus, problem solved. Readers, I give you Cassiopeia Black – the girl in Harry's life who will not be his lover or his friend, not as of now anyway.

At this moment in time, she's a total brat. Imagine Pansy and Draco added together, times _four. _This was done purposefully. I wanted a character who would noticeably grow and change into someone better over years (seven! I don't want to bore you by the time Cass reaches seventh year), a character on whom Harry's influence will seem obvious and even more so, a character who excels at stirring up drama and tension. By all means tell me how you feel about her, but this is one character I'm pretty determined I'll keep.

Also, can I just say, I threw the idea of Harry-Hermione pairing out there, randomly, and I had no idea how much negative feedback I would receive. Chill, people. I just wanted to hear your comments because truthfully, there aren't that many characters out there who can live up to being Harry's equal, with the exception of Voldemort…not that I'm saying Hermione's anywhere close, but at least intellectually they're at equal footing.

Hopefully, everyone paid attention to Harry's Christmas presents. They're objects that will definitely aid him in the future. Also, anyone ready to complain the impossibility of Harry getting _Draco Malfoy _a Nimbus Two Thousand Broomstick and not himself…let's just say there was more in the letter Nimbus Racing Broom Company sent him than just a greeting…

To those of you confused about Harry's letter to Remus, basically it tricked him into writing the letter Harry used as proof that an ally of his family was willing to support his petition for emancipation...something necessary in the process. Imagine Remus' fury when he realised that Harry wasn't withdrawing from school but rather applying for emancipation...and Remus' letter had been what helped him...Harry's pretty cruel to Remus right now, but this only means that the second time they meet Lupin's going to be alot tougher than what he was in Third Year. He's not going to back down next time, he's going to strike back and play just as hard.

Now, something I'm pretty sure people will be asking is, Whaaat? Why would Dumbledore of all people give Slytherin of all houses one hundred house points to Harry Potter of all students? My reason: Dumbledore has finally realised something – it's stupid to worry over Harry and the people he's with when they're simply eleven year old children. Their parents may be Death Eaters, but indisputably, kids like Draco Malfoy are still just kids. In the end, there was no point getting so riled up over them. All it did was get Harry more angry at him. He's finally come to realise that he has underestimated Harry's intelligence, his capabilities and his bitterness, just as he has overestimated Harry's naiveté and his desire for love and acceptance. He's finally coming to terms with the fact that some people, some perfectly good people, take him and Harry as an example, are just took different to ever understand each other. His one hundred house points weren't just for Harry, it was for all of Slytherin he feels he has wronged, perhaps not in actions but at least in his mind, his thoughts and Gryffindor instincts.

That's my reason. Harry just thinks Dumbledore's trying to suck up to him.

To all the people who are confused with the whose-the-bad-guy-and-whose-the-good-guy part, trying to work out whether Dumbledore's the one that's bad here or Harry is, whether Voldemort _is _evil, or whether this is a good!Voldemort story, then let me tell you now that there is no distinction. The whole point of this story is to question our views of what is right (Light) and what is wrong (Dark). The reason I'm writing this story now is because I'm sick of all the dark!Harry stories where Dumbledore is decidedly evil and manipulative with absolutely no good intentions for society, and the Death Eaters/Voldemort are actually good. All I'm doing here in this story is changing the character of _Harry Potter_. All other characters, all other events, have remained unchanged. The ambiguity experienced here is because we are viewing the world through the eyes of a boy who has merely _stumbled _upon his new world, still naïve yet cynical, ignorant yet wise. He is learning to see things in a bigger perspective, and as such, he is discovering that there is no good and evil. Dumbledore will be like the canon, good, but this story will highlight the other side of him the canon skims over. Voldemort _is still Voldemort, _as in he is _not _good, but Harry is 'sort-of friends' with him, read SORT-OF because he understands him and empathises with him in a lot of ways. More on this later. For now, please just remember that good and evil does not exist, so please do not ask me to distinguish between them.

MaskWithATruth


	9. Chapter the fifth: second year part a

Disclaimer: Not mine. JKR's.

_Chapter the fifth_

It was the summer holidays before Harry's second year at Hogwarts and his Great-Aunt Cassiopeia had banned him from playing Quidditch with Draco at the Malfoy Manor, demanding instead for him to retreat to the quiet of the house library and read every printed word it contained.

After receiving Harry's school reports, his Great-Aunt had been pleased – knowing he had come overall first of his year – but unsatisfied – knowing that it was Neville Longbottom who had topped the year in Herbology, Hermione Granger who had completely beaten him in History of Magic and Draco Malfoy who tied with Harry in bearing the mantle of first in Potions, which truly was unfair.

"The only subject Longbottom is half-decent at is Herbology," Harry muttered bitterly. "Granger wins in History because she's the only one who even listens in the class, and as for Draco, can I help it if Snape is his godfather?"

Cassiopeia fumed. "You are giving me excuses," she snapped. "Longbottom's parents were two highly-talented individuals, and there is no doubt about it that their son should follow their footsteps. Hermione Granger is _muggle-born. _While it is understandable that you are muggle-raised, to think that a witch with virtually no connections to the Wizarding world as you do still bests you and tries harder than you do is just shameful, is it not?" Harry fumed. "And as for Draco being Professor Snape's godson, that's hardly a fair argument when you've named him as your guardian should your current one be indisposed."

Harry shivered at the ease with which Cassiopeia spoke of death. His great-aunt's words did seem to ring a bell with him, if only just a little in knowing Granger of all people had beaten him – naturally, that wouldn't do. He fulfilled his duties in learning to the extent of reading all Second Year content, with particular emphasis on History – if he were to continue occupying his time in History of Magic with other, more interesting things, it would only mean reading everything he needed to throughout the year during his summer holidays.

That, all in all, took about two weeks of solid, non-stopping studying. By the time Harry had emerged out of the family library, thinking it was finally time to play Quidditch at the Malfoys', Cassiopeia still wasn't satisfied. "How naïve of you to believe all you need is _schoolroom __knowledge _to achieve success. There is a world beyond that of the classroom, princeling. I am wrong to have assumed you knew this already."

Harry knew what his aunt meant – they were more or less the same things Hermione Granger had attempted to instil in him the first time the two had met. _Unfortunately __for __you, __Aunt __Cass, __my __original __plan __in __life __still __hasn__'__t __changed__ – __all __I __want __to __do __is __live. __Live __and __do __so __happily. __Call __me __selfish, __call __me __stubborn. __But __I__'__m __deciding __my __own __fate __for __this __one. __So __destiny __thinks __I __should __kill __the __Dark __Lord? __I__'__ll __get __to __that. __In __the __meantime, __my __life __is __my __own._

His initial plan was this – read what was in the drawers of the only desk in the library Harry had worked from all summer, where Cassiopeia had filled with carefully selected tomes from the family library that she expected him to read. In the end, he knew he had to obey his guardians. But as for allowing them power to the extent of being able to control his life? That was something he refused to give up.

Unfortunately, Cassiopeia's forefathers held particular interest in Wizarding law, and the lack of residents in her household meant that the library had stopped bothering to update itself about half a century ago. The books Cassiopeia had chosen for him were not only outdated, some illegal and most definitely irrelevant to the twentieth century (elf laws beginning from the thirteenth century – Harry failed to see the meaning behind reading such a book), but most importantly to any twelve year old, they were _boring. _In his first year, Harry had sifted through the Hogwarts library and its forbidden section for books on Wizarding history, books that were interesting and helped him understand the formation of the current hierarchical structure of Wizard society. But the books in Cassiopeia Black's ancient library? They were what librarians used to fan themselves on a hot day, what Madam Pince recycled into the paper she used to print foreboding warnings against damaging library property on the inside cover of Hogwarts' library books. Simply put, they were books one didn't _read _but merely kept for the show of it. Harry, knowing this all very well, proceeded to inform his great-aunt of this enlightening fact.

"If you wish to educate me, at least do so with knowledge that is _useful.__"_

"That," Cassiopeia said after he had finished, "is what I call a load of utter rubbish. There is no such thing as useless knowledge. Knowledge is _power_, boy. To know is to be powerful. You think the Dark Lord became who he was without reading a book?"

"No," he retorted. "He became who he _is_because he read too much."

"That may be so, but in the early days, his knowledge and understanding of politics that involved nearly every power branch of every magical hierarchy that existed garnered him much respect, earning him the majority of his supporters before he'd escalated to violence. He held the sort of respect that balancing airborne household cleaning objects fail to achieve," Cassiopeia drawled on, ignoring Harry's feeble attempt at rebellion.

"Alright," Harry snapped angrily. "I'll read them; I promise I will. But when I finish, I _will _play Quidditch."

Cassiopeia, relishing in her near-victory, merely smirked. "You forget, Harry Potter. _I _am the mistress of this house. It will listen to me if I tell it to keep you locked in the library forever. Unless you somehow manage to make up for ten years of knowledge Dumbledore stole from you before the holidays are up, you _will _be staying in here and I will _not _allow you to waste yourself."

The two reached a stand-off, one of the many two equally stubborn people had as the summer progressed. Next week, it would be about etiquette. Then, probably about Harry's fashion sense, followed by a dramatic change in diet in the hopes of influencing a growth spurt.

In the end, Harry listened. Not because he had given up (he hadn't.) Not because he succumbed to Cassiopeia's mighty will (years with the Dursleys had sculpted him into believing that as long as the will still disagreed and the heart was in conflict, tyranny would not triumph). Furthermore it was _not_because the house had locked him in – by the end of the summer, Harry had deduced that the house probably recognised him as just as much of a master as Cassiopeia Black.

It was because Harry had finally come to a realisation: Cassiopeia was as close as he was ever going to get to having a real mother and the feeling of knowing that no matter how flawed she was with her constant demands, criticisms and insanity, she still cared enough for his future (if not too much) for her to work futilely in moulding him into the perfect Boy-Who-Lived, or perhaps what she deemed as the perfect Head of Black and Potter.

That, quite dreadfully, was the only thing that saw him through his summer holidays for his friends' letters never quite reached him, nor his to them, and it would take another five months before Harry understood why.

_-wizardry-_

_Second year_

_Part a_

The first person Harry found upon boarding the Hogwarts Express and subsequently searching for his companions was Daphne.

She was sitting with a group of Ravenclaw girls who had quietened at his entrance into their compartment.

Harry nodded. "Hello," he said, feeling slightly awkward being under such intense examination/assessment. "Daphne, good to see you. I hope you had a good holiday."

Daphne looked extremely amused at his discomfort. "Come join us, Harry. I'm afraid we're the only Slytherins who bothered to board the Express forty minutes before departure."

Harry grinned sheepishly and sat next to a young, blonde girl whose large, daydreaming blue eyes stared at him curiously. "I didn't have a choice. Snape was kind enough to inform me that my Portkey would activate at ten exact. It was coming early or not at all."

His audience giggled.

"I'm Cho," the pretty girl sitting opposite him said with a smile. "Cho Chang."

"Marietta Edgecomb," her friend chimed in eagerly.

"Pleasure meeting you," Harry said as sincerely as he could.

Another look around the compartment told him that they weren't the only ones Harry had never spoken to. Padma gave him a shy smile and Mandy Brocklehurst nodded awkwardly. There was just _nothing _to talk about.

Then all eyes fell upon the girl sitting next to him.

The blonde girl smiled at the attention. "Have I got something on my face?" Her voice sounded dreamlike, as if she had yet to wake up.

Cho Chang coughed. "Er, no. We were just wondering -"

"Do we know you?" Daphne said rather rudely.

The girl, unperturbed, continued smiling. Harry also noticed she had yet to blink. "No, you probably don't. I'm very good and blending into the background. No one even noticed I was here until Harry Potter broke up the conversation and all of you stopped talking."

The others in the compartment exchanged incredulous glances.

"You're a first year, aren't you?" Padma said awkwardly.

The girl hummed.

"Do you have a name?" Daphne injected rudely. Padma shot her a look, one that suggested to Harry that not everyone agreed with her attitude, but Daphne pointedly ignored it.

"Luna Lovegood," she said, sounding like an afterthought.

"_Lovegood?__" _Both Daphne and Marietta looked on the verge of laughter. "Your father doesn't own _The __Quibbler, _does he?"

Luna hummed yes.

"I find it quite…charming," Mandy defended weakly.

Cho coughed.

Daphne scoffed. "Charming? Not the word _I__'__d_use to describe."

"Don't be mean, Daphne," Padma scolded with her slight smile on her face. "Have you decided what house you want to be in, Luna?"

"Why no, not particularly," Luna said cheerfully. "I wish I don't have to be in one. It's rather silly, isn't it? Putting people together just because they're the same. The conversations would be awfully boring."

Naturally, no one took her words seriously. The Ravenclaw girls exchanged looks and Daphne just rolled her eyes. It didn't take a genius to tell she was about to say another jibe. Harry felt bad for Luna, knowing that within five minutes, his presence had already disturbed the peace in the compartment. He decided to make up to her by preventing Daphne from saying any more.

"That's really interesting," Harry found himself blurting out, sounding far more earnest than he truly felt.

This time, the incredulous looks were directed on him. He inwardly cringed. _You __dug __your __own __grave, __Harry. __Might __as __well __lie __in __it._

"She's right," he continued. "I mean, our worlds are all pretty limited when we only ever talk to people similar to us in personality. I'm a Slytherin and I hardly ever talk to people outside of my house."

"Yes, Harry," Daphne said through gritted teeth, "but what if that's because you _like _talking to people who think similar to you? Maybe that's why you're _friends _with them?"

By the time Daphne had finished, Harry had surprised himself with attempting to find a rebuttal. Defending Luna had strangely turned into a debate which he was beginning to believe.

"That's not what the real world is like, Daphne. In the real world, we don't get to choose who our colleagues or neighbours are. People different to us _will _appear in some point in our lives, so maybe it's time all of us stopped being so _exclusive _and started thinking about reality." He smiled encouragingly at Luna. "Luna's right - The Sorting Hat doesn't just group us…in some ways, it also splits us…The world would be a better place if there _was_no Sorting Ceremony."

Luna, finally, blinked.

By now, Daphne was offended enough to probably breathe fire. "Harry," she said in a falsely sweet tone, "does the fact that this happens to be a thousand year tradition mean nothing to you?"

Cho coughed.

Harry only smiled back angelically. "Exactly. A thousand year tradition. Don't you think that's a little out of date?"

Luna joined in cheerfully. "Oh, yes. Daddy says the Sorting Hat's been around for over a thousand years, and it is destined to retire on its one thousand and seventy-seventh year of service. He read it in his tea leaves, you know."

"Well, too bad," Daphne said, sounding almost childish and simultaneously reddening. "It doesn't matter _what _your father thinks, Lovegood. _You_ will still be Sorted."

Luna turned her large blue eyes to Daphne and smiled sweetly. "You have Fizzing Humdingles in your hair. Did you know?"

Cho coughed.

"Would you like a cough drop, Cho?" Daphne said exasperatedly. Cho blushed in response.

Harry shook his head hopelessly. "Let's go see if the others are here, Daphne," he said, grabbing onto her before she could say more. "It's been a pleasure talking to you."

"Where are you going?" Luna asked curiously. "Have I offended you?"

Daphne snorted. "Er, no," Harry said awkwardly. "You're welcome to join us if you want." He felt really of bad for her – Luna was strange and while Mandy and Padma seemed to tolerate her, clearly no one liked her.

"Oh, please," Marietta enthused eagerly, who all but pushed Luna out of their compartment.

Daphne gave a suffering sigh. She didn't need to say anything for Harry to understand her look.

Harry cleared his throat. "Right. Let's go."

Three carriages down and no Slytherins were in sight. Then came carriage number four.

_You have got to be kidding me._

There was Ron Weasley sitting with a somewhat willing Hermione Granger.

Daphne and Harry (and Luna) stood at the compartment door and stared. _"__How _did that happen?" Daphne said disbelievingly.

"Confundus? Possibly the recent invention of a Stupidity Charm? Or for Weasley, maybe a _really _strong Intelligence Potion?"

"Wrong on all accounts, Harry," Luna said cheerfully. "Anyone can tell, the Wrackspurts are _everywhere _in there."

The silence could not be more pronounced as Harry and Daphne stared at Luna, then at each other.

"I suppose they must've entered their brains and addled with things," Luna continued offhandedly. "They tend to do that, you know. There seems to be a rather romantic air about them."

Daphne burst into laughter. "Lovegood, you _are _insane if you believe you can pair off a hippogriff with a thestral and actually form a _harmonious __relationship. _Weasley and Granger? The only similarity they share is having magic."

It was then that the compartment next to Granger and Weasley's slammed open. Out came an incredulous Blaise.

"Daphne. Mind telling me _why _you're standing in the corridor laughing?"

Daphne straightened up and shook her head. "Don't ask; I'd rather you remain innocent and unknowing instead of going through what we were unfortunate enough to experience."

"We?" Blaise, upon noticing Harry, nodded but withheld his usual smirk in greeting. "Hello, Potter. Kind of you to join our lowly presence once again. Had a nice holiday did you? Not that you bothered to inform the rest of us."

"I _could _say the same for you, Zabini," Harry returned curtly. "And as for my holiday, if you can call it as such, both of us know that it would be a lie to say it was anything bordering _nice. _Try being locked into a library for seemingly forever, being forced to read nearly every page of every bloody, outdated, sixteenth century book, not to mention relearning the codes of etiquette wizard way, and then we'll talk."

Blaise, at his words, visibly relaxed. "It seems like your great-aunt's been intercepting your mail, Harry," he said frowningly. "None of us received any replies from you all summer."

"Just as how I received nothing either," Harry shot back.

"I knew _instantly _that Cassiopeia Black would attempt to block your mail," Daphne added snootily. "Any guardian strict enough to organise a _Portkey _for their ward probably isn't above intercepting their mail either."

At this moment, the compartment Blaise had just exited opened once again and out emerged Malfoy. "Arranging a house get-together in the corridor are we?"

Blaise grinned. "Finished with establishing your authority over the pureblood first years, I see."

Draco's eyes flitted discreetly to observe Harry's reaction, a movement that Harry was almost certain everyone had noticed. When Draco realised that no obvious response was on the brink of occurrence, he shrugged. "Let's go," he said shortly.

It didn't take more for Draco to rudely swivel round and walk to their friends' compartment, expecting the others to follow obediently. It also didn't take much for Harry to pick up that not only was Draco finding satisfaction in being the leader of their group for once, even if just on the Hogwarts Express, but he had yet to say anything to him.

"Not that you seem to care, Draco," he called, "but Luna will be joining us."

Luna started. "Oh," she said cheerfully. "I didn't know the two of you were friends. You didn't seem really close, or that you liked each other." She quickly hurried to follow. "You have very shiny hair, Draco. Is it normally so lustrous or do you use kneazle spit like my Aunt Ruby does on her wigs?"

Draco, without stopping, turned to inspect Luna for the first time and frowned. Harry could almost see the gears turning in his head as he processed what Luna had just said.

"Er, Luna," Harry coughed. "I don't think it's kneazle spit Draco uses." Daphne, meanwhile, sniggered. "Let's just…keep walking."

"I hope you don't mind," Luna continued dazedly. "I'm not very good at making friends, you see. Usually, people hear what I have to say and get insulted."

At Blaise and Draco's slightly confused expressions, Daphne rolled her eyes. "No, that's how she's _usually _like."

Draco simply stared at the smiling girl, slightly incredulous. "…Alright. We'll sort this out on the way."

Harry couldn't be more relieved when their path of conservation was interrupted.

_-wizardry-_

It was during this moment during their trip to the compartment five down that Harry re-met Ginny Weasley.

Or rather, became reacquainted with her hair as she rudely barged into him, dropping the book she held tightly in her hand as it thudded in front of Daphne's feet.

"Ow!"

Ginny Weasley looked up, saw that it was Harry Potter, her greatest idol, the light of her life, of whom she had just barged into, and consequently turned a deep, dangerous red.

"S-sorry-!"

Harry grimaced. "It's alright Ginny."

This was apparently the wrong thing to say. Ginny, already dead-set on sprinting away from the crime scene in humiliation, stopped in her path and turned to gaze adoringly at Harry. "Y-you know my n-name?"

Daphne snorted beside him, picking up the book Ginny had dropped in her clumsiness. "Interesting diary you've got there, Weasley. Brand new by the likes of it, or was that fifty years ago?"

Ginny Weasley squeaked, clutching her book tightly before running off.

"Honestly, it wasn't like I was going to _steal _it," Daphne would huff later, when Luna had been introduced to their compartment of friends (none of whom liked her all too much), and Draco had conveniently recounted that particular incidence, during which Ron had not been present. "And just so you know, that thing isn't even hers. _Tom __Marvellous __Riddle, _or something like that. That's what it said on the front page. "

_-wizardry-_

Things only continued down a worsening path of misfortune as the night progressed.

By the time the Sorting Ceremony of 1992 had commenced, Harry was already dreadfully sure something unexpectedly and horrible would happen. He was right.

McGonagall made her way to the front of the platform, sent a stern look to the general students of Hogwarts, rolled down her scroll of First Years sorted ordered alphabetically…and announced, "Black, Cassiopeia!"

"My great-aunt's coming to _Hogwarts?__" _Harry exclaimed incredulously.

His peers sniggered.

With relief and dread, he spotted instead the young, vicious girl he had met during his holidays. _No. __Please __tell __me __this __is __a __joke._

Cassiopeia's Sorting lasted even shorter than Draco's had. The Hat had screamed "SLYTHERIN!" before it'd even touched her head, earning a thunderous applaud from their house. His triumphant cousin then made her way to the Slytherin table, sitting in the clearly empty spot where Draco and his goons would've typically seated themselves. Due to a number of reasons unrelated to personal choice, the spot was directly opposite Harry.

"You're not a ghost," Harry blurted disbelievingly as soon as she sat.

Daphne snorted beside him. "Ever the charmer, Potter."

Cassiopeia glared. "Are you daft? What did you possibly think I was here for?"

"I dunno," he muttered, "you tell me."

"I'm Blaise," Blaise introduced himself. "Or, if you prefer less informality, Zabini."

"Daphne Greengrass," Daphne said boredly with a slight tilt of her head at Cassiopeia's direction. "Slytherin obviously, second year and pureblood." She smirked. "Also, if it bothers you, friend of Harry Potter."

Cassiopeia nodded approvingly. "Good to know my forefathers' house hasn't _completely _lost its standards," she drawled.

Daphne merely smirked, eyeing Harry amusedly. He scowled. "I'm going to be the bigger person and not say anything, Cass, because I know you're upset. You didn't sit here just to insult me -"

"Insult you, _insult __you? _The very fact that you _exist_ insults _me, _you dirty little orphaned, half-blooded thief!" she spat.

_Jesus __Christ, __the __girl __needs __a _serious _overdose __of __chill __pills._" Alright, so the first two are true but who says I stole anything?" he retorted angrily.

Cassiopeia glared. "Two weeks ago, _my _great-aunt left the house for Diagon Alley. Do you know what she planned to do, Potter? She went to change her will. For _you.__"_

Harry blinked. Cassiopeia's words had stunned him to silence. "She…mentioned me in her will?"

Cass's doll-like face, suddenly covered in tears, morphed into fierce hatred. "You don't notice anything, do you? Not like _me. __I__'__ve_ noticed the way my aunt moves far slower than she used to, her increased reliance on our house elf, even the way she trembles as speaks. My great-aunt is _dying. _And everything, _every __insignificant __thing __in __this __household, _is _yours _when she is gone. She told me so herself."

Harry swallowed.

Immediately, the guilt at having treated his guardian so badly overwhelmed him. _Why __didn__'__t __you __tell __me, __old __lady? __Why __had __you __kept __the __circumstances __of __your __health __so __private, __treat __me __so __coldly, __yet __still __torture __me __with __the __guilt __of __knowing __you__'__ve __left __me __inheritance? __Why __did __you __change __your __will, __what __did __you __think __it __would __change __concerning __our __relationship __or __our __fates, __me __being __killed __or __killing __the __Dark __Lord, __you __dying __from __old __age__ – __what __difference __could __leaving __me __everything __make?_

"What'll happen to _me?__" _Cassiopeia continued. "I'll have to go to school now. I'll have to get a job, what with none of the Black fortune belonging to me. The only thing I'm good at is music, and honestly, when there's magic who wants the real thing? In the legal sense, she might as well disown me."

A shuffle along the table caused Harry to turn away from his cousin, only to see an incredulous and slightly angry Draco making his way next to his cousin without disrupting the Sorting. "Queenie? Mind telling me what you're doing here?"

Cassiopeia looked ready to strangle the two of them. "Are you daft? I'm going to Hogwarts."

Draco, instead of looking chagrined like Harry had, displayed an obvious experience in dealing with the likes of Cassiopeia Black and as such merely rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean," he said. "Aren't you too young for Hogwarts? First Years should be eleven, but who knows what with educational decrees being dolled out every other week. I mean, you _look _eight…"

Cassiopeia, or _Queenie _as Draco called her, looked seconds away from bursting a vein. "For your information Draco Malfoy," she snarled, "I am _ten._I'm here because my guardian is dying."

Draco paused. "Aunt Cassiopeia's _dying?__" _

"That _is _what I just said."

Draco sent Harry an accusing glance. "I only just found out," Harry defended weakly. "We aren't exactly on the best of terms for her to confide to me the exact details of her health and whether or not she'll be dying one of these days…"

Draco smirked. "That's because the lady's got far too much pride to admit it to just anyone, Potter."

"Do _you_ know what she's dying from, Malfoy?"

Cass scowled. "Oh what does it matter? What do old people usually die from? I was _slightly _more concerned with the fact that she's left me next to nothing in her will!"

Draco sighed. Clearly, Cassiopeia's dramatics was something he was more than familiar with. "I'm sure she's left you plenty of money," he said tiredly. Something told Harry this wasn't the first time he'd said something like this to her. "Besides, your mother's family has gold too, don't they? Now stop crying and shut up; just so you know, just about everyone is staring at us, _again_."

He was right. Indeed, most eyes were on the Boy-Who-Lived and his two cousins, curious perhaps about their conversation; Cassiopeia's tears and Draco's sudden change of seat had only heightened their curiosity.

"It isn't just because you're the Boy-Who-Lived, you know," Daphne said discreetly when it became obvious Draco wasn't talking to him anytime soon. "It's because you're all Blacks. There's been a rumour floating round that you're a bit of an elitist…you only seem hang around those of us with Black blood."

Harry scoffed. "That's ridiculous."

"Harry, look around you. Just about everyone on this table is in some way or another related to the House of Black."

Harry looked and fell silent.

Something like guilt twisted in his stomach as he thought about how far he had come since exactly one year ago, when he had entered and sat in the Great Hall of Hogwarts for the first time with minimal knowledge of the world he had chosen to become part of. He had changed. From being the boy who shied away from the spotlight and cringed at arrogant people like Malfoy, to probably the most famous kid in Wizarding history, a role model to his schoolmates, an emancipated minor, the patron of both the House of Black and House of Potter…The question was, was this change for the better or the worse? Had he, amidst everything, turned into someone he had once detested, someone like Dudley?

_-wizardry-_

Surprisingly, Luna made it to Ravenclaw, something Harry noted the Ravenclaws (particularly Marietta Edgecomb) took with undue horror. A few applauded, the ever so righteous Hermione Granger being one of them. Harry grinned at Luna's indifference as she smiled graciously at Professor McGonagall before stepping off the platform. At that, he couldn't but clap, the sound seeming to echo amongst a crowd of unaffected housemates.

The people around him stared. Daphne sent him a look that questioned his insanity, but Blaise of all people was kind (or perhaps sarcastic) enough to grant Luna with an applause of his own. Nott followed. Draco joined in, slightly out of pity, mostly out of mockery. Crabbe and Goyle naturally followed suit immediately. Before he knew it, most of his house was beginning to clap, earning a few curious glances from the other houses.

What happened next was something no one had predicted.

What Should Have Happened:

Luna turned at the sudden noise and upon spotting Harry amongst the Slytherins, smiled happily at their half-hearted enthusiasm and waved. Harry, knowing he had caught the eyes of everyone in the Great Hall (yet again), decided to wave back. He hoped whatever admiration Cho and Marietta held for him would be suffice in ensuring Luna's time in Hogwarts to be at the least passably bearable. Luna happily sat herself down next to Padma, who blinked furiously before asking the others to shift down and make room. Luna and Padma would be friends, perhaps out of the latter's pity and self-righteousness rather than the real desire for friendship. The course of history would continue onwards smoothly and the Sorting Ceremony of 1992 would be described by the next edition of _Hogwarts, __A __History, _of which Hermione Granger was sure to write, as just another typical Sorting.

What _Actually_ Happened:

Luna turned at the sudden noise and upon spotting Harry amongst the Slytherins, changed her direction of path until, to the incredulity of every person in the Great Hall, she made her way to Harry. Blaise, shocked and perhaps slightly impressed at her boldness, shifted over to make room for her. Before Harry had recovered, Luna was on the other side of him, smiling serenely and satisfyingly.

"Luna," he whispered awkwardly, "this isn't the Ravenclaw table, you realise. Your house is the one with the -"

"Potter," Cassiopeia said impatiently, "Shut up. What sort of a leader are you if you keep contradicting your own actions?"

"But I didn't ask her to -!"

Harry stopped, rethinking the situation around him. Cassiopeia was right; it _was _he who made Luna turn and come over. He couldn't very well send Luna back, and for a moment, he felt the guilt of knowing he had, once again, unintentionally stirred chaos.

"Thanks, Harry," Luna said brightly. "I don't particularly want to be in Ravenclaw and I don't want to have no one to sit with. You don't mind, do you?"

And how could Harry say no in front of an entire school that seemed to watch his every move? Suddenly, it had become bigger than just being a boy who survived the Killing Curse or even wanting to survive and live. He had the potential to destroy their friendship, the rest of Luna's schooling career that had yet to start, her entire impression of Hogwarts, and most certainly Luna's self-esteem should he choose to tell her, cruelly, to stand up and shamefully walk back to the seething Ravenclaw table.

But he couldn't. Nowhere had it been stated that a student of a particular house had to, at all times, sit with that house. Luna had every right to sit next to him, as a friend and schoolmate. How could he ever, even unconsciously, have fall into the trap of class segregation in which nearly every other person here had become a victim of, to which he had once scorned and vowed to overcome? For a moment, he wished he lacked the hypocrisy of being just like them and instead stand up in front of the whole school and loudly make a statement that would make them stop sneering at Luna and for once admire her courage to do things anyone else, Harry included, would never do.

To do so would, naturally, require ample amounts of bravery and compassion. In the years to come, he would learn the meaning and value of both, but for now, knowing he lacked a bit in those areas, he merely shifted over a little to give Luna more room.

_-wizardry-_

The second event that disrupted their evening took place as the last first year made her way to the platform for her house.

Weasley, Ginevra.

Her heart, twice as fast as her footsteps, eagerly anticipated her destined house Gryffindor, where three of brothers sat with narrowed, determined eyes. The Hat flopped over her ears, swallowing up the intimidating vision of all four tables of students staring at her.

_Stage fright, my dear? Not a very becoming feature in a girl who wants to be a Gryffindor._

Ginny swallowed, hands tightly grasping the stool as she trembled. The voice of the Sorting Hat sounded somewhat patronizing but mostly contemplative as it considered where she belonged. In the slim chance of facing his brothers' wrath should she find herself in a house that wasn't Gryffindor, she briefly wondered whether it was possible to be Re-Sorted. Even more curiously, she wondered how it was that so much faith could be placed on a single conscience for over a thousand years and whether anyone else had ever questioned a hat's authority.

_Ginny, __Ginny, __Ginny. __Your __curiosity _will _be __the __end __of __you, __I __fear. __There __are __things __in __the __world __that __a __young, __ignorant _naïve _girl __such __as __yourself __should __not __bother __with._

She gasped. Somehow, she knew, the voice of the Sorting Hat had changed. It was no longer echoing in the contained edges of the hat. No, it had progressed into a deeper, smoother voice, one that had made its way into her _head._ "Who-who are you?" she whispered fearfully.

_Why I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat! A little dim-witted, I must say. Quite loyal though. Plenty of courage too. _

And just as quickly, the anxious feeling of a foreign being in her head had gone, replaced once more by the safe voice of the Sorting Hat. She trembled, only wishing for the moment to hurry up and end. Gryffindor, Ginny thought. Hurry up and let me go or I'll set you on fire myself!

_My, __what __a __nasty __streak __you __have. __I __commend __you, __my __dear, __on __possessing __such __a __fierce __will __beneath __that __timid __mask __you __unswervingly __bear. __It __will __serve __you, __I __do __believe, _exceptionally _well __in __the __future._

The sleek voice was back, this time tempting her with abandoning her fear. "You know the future too?" she blushed. "Will I -"

_Now __get __that __silly __thought __out __of __your __head, __my __dear. __One __would __certainly __hope __your __aspirations __are __greater __than _that.

Ginny gulped.

_You are frightened, Ginny. Why so? Be proud, my dear. Many, many things lie in wait of your discovery, things that will lead you down a path of greatness and power. _

Perhaps it was out of fear – her mother's warnings she had always nonchalantly taken for granted seemed to come back to her as she struggled to make herself comfortable. Or perhaps it was out of anxiety – occasionally, there had been reports by people with high anxiety levels who hallucinated, slowly went mad. Or maybe, maybe it was her witch's instinct, the gut feeling that told her something was very, very wrong.

There was something off about the voices she was hearing.

By the second, Ginny was overcome with the profound impression that her Sorting would be unlike any other, and that her life was about to change, very soon.

_What an ambitious thought, Ginny. _

"Shut up," she whispered feverishly, "just shut up and Sort me."

_Bravery suits you best, but perhaps loyalty is what will ultimately prevail. You will do well in HU -_

"SLYTHERIN!"

The name rang loudly in her ear, seemingly deafening and enough so to drown out what the Sorting Hat had been about to say. There was no time to dwindle and rethink. The Hat had been lifted from her head and she sighed in relief. Finally free from the Hat's clutches and in a house which one of her brothers were in. She was disappointed in having missed out on Gryffindor, but content with Slytherin. After all, Ron himself was in there, as was the Boy-Who-Lived.

Ginny stepped off the platform. As she embarked on her journey to the Slytherin table, something akin to hesitation stirred in her young, naïve heart.

Ginny Weasley wasn't stupid. She was young, she was nervous, she was preoccupied with many, many thoughts but the ear of a child always heard true – there were _two _voices that had accompanied her in the Hat. One was the Sorting Hat's voice, the other something strange and yet familiar. What she was absolutely certain of by the time she had sat down was that the voice that had shouted out "SLYTHERIN!" wasn't the Hat's.

She should have been in Hufflepuff.

(AN: Confused? Read extended explanation at bottom of chapter)

_-wizardry-_

The night was still young. What had just commenced was the Second Disruption, Part One.

The Second Disruption Part Two was well on its way to formation as Ginny sat herself down beside her astonished brother.

"G-ginny?" he gaped in disbelief.

"Your sister, Weasley," Daphne took it upon herself to explain. "In case you fell asleep in the middle of that _dreadfully _long Sorting, she was Sorted into Slytherin."

Harry gave it ten seconds. Blaise had given it five.

Ron, blind to his anticipating audience, stood up and promptly turned purple. "How could you, Ginny? I thought better of you."

Ginny, looking even grimmer than before, meekly stared at her lap in silence.

"Honestly, what's Mum going to say? She might as well kill us both, just you see. We'll never hear the end of this."

By now, Harry was very aware of the fact they had attracted the attention of Dumbledore, who surveyed them curiously. Blaise nudged him and mouthed, "_Do_ something."

He grimaced. _Not __again. _"Oi, Ron, sit down and stop making a fool of yourself will you? Dumbledore's about to make his speech."

"Shut it, Potter," Ron said angrily. "Don't get me started on you. Ginny told me she saw you earlier and I didn't think much of it. I should have _known _you'd do something like this."

_Oh __don__'__t __get _me _started, __Weasley. _He glared back. "You have a knack for making false assumptions, you know that? Just shut up and sit down before you hurt yourself."

If anything, Ron stood up even further, on the verge on leaping onto the table just to prove a point. "Don't order me around, Potter. I'm not like Malfoy or Zabini. If I want to yell at my sister, then that's none of your business."

"Quite right, Mister Weasley. That'll be _my _business."

The confidence and anger Ron had previously aspired evaporated rapidly. He gulped, falling back into his chair to the relief of the Slytherins before turning round to the glaring face of Professor Snape.

"P-profess -"

"Never before has a student disrupted the Sorting ceremony in such a way," he said, deadly calm. "But for a student to have the audacity to disrupt _two_ Sorting ceremonies in two years, both in a similar fashion of protesting contempt for his own _house?__"_

Ron gulped. Harry relished in his defeat, pitied his mortification, dreaded the image of their house in the coming weeks, and silent implored for Ron to realise the stupidity of obsessing over such unimportant things. _One __day __Ron, __you__'__ll __realise __what __I __have __today. __It__'__s __childish __to __put __your __house __above __all __things. __Moreover, __it__'__s __foolish __and __for __you __hypocritical __to __voice __the __indoctrinations __of __others __without __even __thinking __about __just __who _you _are __and __what _you _should __learn __to __represent. __Pity __it__'__s __taken __me __this __long __to __see __that._

_-wizardry-_

Second Year commenced the following day and the schism between Draco and Harry could not be more obvious. Harry, futilely, had attempted to apologise for not playing Quidditch at the Malfoys, but an apology didn't seem to be what Draco was after. If anything, mentioning Quidditch only did to incense his previously cool-headed friend even further. Daphne and Blaise had both stepped out of the feud, making it clear neither of them were taking sides and doing an extraordinary job in pretending Draco's distance was the most natural thing in the world. Millicent and Pansy, similarly, seemed content with the change – Draco's sudden isolation naturally made Pansy one of the people he could resort to sitting with without being forced to engage into some form of conversation with Harry. Millicent, who'd never really liked Draco anyway, was fine with hanging around Harry without the presence of Draco. By the end of the week, even Crabbe and Goyle were aware of the drift, automatically saving a seat for their leader that was far away from Harry.

The split between them was so natural that it seemed like the only who cared about reconciling with Draco was Harry.

"It was bound to happen someday," Blaise said nonchalantly. "You're _Harry __Potter _and he's _Draco __Malfoy. _The two of you weren't exactly placed on this Earth to complement each other."

Harry frowned. "What're you going on about, Zabini?"

Cass, who had made it her business to fill the gap Draco had left at the dining table, rolled her eyes. "Never be a politician, Potter. You're so bloody slow. It's like this: In a hive, there's only _one _queen bee. There's never two. It's either one or the other and if there's too many, then they'll have to migrate to another bee hive or something. Same thing with you and him. Malfoys have always been leaders, and as a Slytherin, leaders of their house. Unfortunately for Draco, his position as queen bee is now threatened by you, Potter."

"You seriously just compared Draco Malfoy to a queen bee?" Harry said, incredulous.

Cassiopeia scowled. "That's the only thing you got from what I told you?"

"No, I understood," he snapped. "Contrary to your beliefs, I'm not _that _stupid. But what I'm not getting is why he'd choose now of all times to feel threatened. He didn't exactly complain about being my friend anytime in our first year."

"It's because of his father, Harry," Nott, sitting a few spaces down, said quietly. "Draco doesn't mind being your friend but sometimes making his father proud is more important."

Harry blinked. "His father?" he repeated. "That's it? He could have told me."

Nott turned, sending Harry an empty look. "Trust me, Potter. Everyone has secrets."

Harry, having finally found the reason behind the split but not really understood it, consequently stopped attempting to reconcile with Draco.

Along with the slight changes in friendship circles, classes also changed. Herbology was dramatically becoming more difficult and tiresome, with Sprout hinting at potting Mandrakes within the week ("and remember, _earmuffs _for next week!_"_)_._There was also no more flying lessons and as such, the only times he could fly would be for Quidditch.

Flint, funnily enough, had failed his seventh year and was now repeating. The Slytherin Quidditch captain sent glowering looks that promised a good beating at anyone who dared to so much as open their mouth with something alike to humour on their face. Harry felt kind of sorry for him. _Sorry_ because Flint was miserable what with all his friends having graduated and grades that were still unacceptable. _Kind __of _because Flint was fighting as hard as he got. He wasn't exactly the most welcoming person, and his proud character made it almost impossible for the timid seventh years, previously tortured under Flint's boot, to come to terms.

By the start of the second week, Flint had already announced tryouts to be held for every position in the team. "And _no __one,__" _he added, sending a look at Harry's direction, "will be exempt."

Harry shrugged, expecting minimal competition for Seeker, what with most knowing _Harry __Potter _had been instated by _Professor __Snape _– that and the fact that he was somewhat in a league of his own.

By the time most of Slytherin had evacuated themselves onto the Quidditch Pitch for their trials however, Harry had discovered that he was sorely mistaken.

_-wizardry-_

Draco Malfoy, who had made a point to avoid eye contact with Harry after Flint had announced the Seeker try-outs, was competing against him for the position of Seeker.

"So _this _is the reason," Harry burst out angrily as soon Flint had finished. "And I suppose you lot all knew."

No one said anything. Not Blaise or Daphne, both of whom merely _humoured _their friend in watching him attempt to resolve his conflicts with Malfoy. Not dear Cass, who sent Harry another one of her smug Black looks. Not even Millicent, who he thought disliked Draco enough to at least grant him knowledge of such a situation, and certainly not the silent Nott and the goons Goyle and Crabbe.

What hurt the most though wasn't that there was nothing to say in that short instant as he stood in front of them, angered and panting at their cold, expressionless faces. No, it was that nothing had _ever_been said,

"So what does this mean?" he finally said when he knew someone _had _to say or do something, even just to show some sign of life. "Do I still get a chance?"

"Unless you can manage to convince the Nimbus Racing Broom Company to take back Lucius Malfoy's deal of seven top-line Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones as his gift to the Slytherin Quidditch team, then Draco's place on the team is indisputable," Blaise answered matter-of-factly.

Harry stared at his friends, none of whom seemed the slightest bit sympathetic. _And __here __I __was, __placing __all __my __eggs __in __one __basket, __thinking __if __I __allied __myself __close __enough __with __this __house, __I__'__d __gain __friends, __acceptance __and __actually __belong. __That __must __have __been __wishful __thinking __on __my __front._

"Sometimes," he said quietly, "I think I really do speak too soon when I defend our house."

He stood up from his place, broom useless in his hands, and walked back to the castle.

_-wizardry-_

There are moments in life when common sense is triumphed by the human condition to see things done the way they were carried out in the imagination.

In his sixth year as Lord Voldemort, Tom Riddle Junior burned down the entire orphanage he'd inhabited as a child, consequently killing every single one of the matrons who had looked after him as a child, as well as all other orphans, not with normal fire which might well have succeeded the job brilliantly, but rather fiendfyre, its audacity taking the strength of twenty Aurors to extinguish, then another thirty Obliviators for the gathering muggles and fire-fighters to forget. Such a fire was hard to conjure, even harder to maintain and control at such a large scale, and the drain on his energy had nearly been foolish, but Tom Riddle had done what he did in a moment (one of many) of pure _lack _of sense, simply because he had always imagined the place of his childhood going up in beautiful, beautiful flames.

It was a similar concept, what Draco Malfoy was about to do.

"Potter! Wait, _move _it you – Harry POTTER!"

Harry turned, took a look at the puffing, determined figure of Malfoy, then decided to continue walking, knowing the Slytherin deserved a taste of his own medicine. Draco eventually caught up, standing in front of him with incredulous eyes.

"Where are you going?" he huffed. "The try-outs for Seeker are on any moment now. Why are you leaving?"

Harry stared at him. "I don't quite feel like trying out this year, Malfoy. Is that a problem?"

If anything, Draco only seemed more exasperated. "What're you trying here, Potter? You know you can't be Seeker unless you actually try out for it. Even the great Boy-Who-Lived isn't _always_ above the common rule, believe it or not."

Harry glared. "What are _you_ trying here, Draco? You ignore me for weeks, stab me in the back by basically reserving the Seeker position for yourself with your rolling galleons, and now you're asking me to compete against you, as if it'll actually make a difference other than humiliate me even more?

Draco glared just as harshly. "And how do you think the rest of us feels? Professor Snape himself instated you on the team as a _first __year._ All you did was catch a stupid Remembrall and suddenly you're the star player on the team. But honestly? Yes, you flew. Yes, once again you defied the odds in surviving yet another neck-breaking incident. But the truth is, everything you've achieved so far, it could have been anyone. It might even have been _me. __I _could have been the one to chase after that Remembrall with a death wish. Snape could've caught _me _stupidly diving to the ground. The fact that it was you says nothing about skill."

"I won Slytherin every match I played in," he said angrily. "You tell me _you _would've risked your neck for Longbottom's Remembrall?"

"Who's to say I wouldn't have, had Snape given me the same chance? You're not brilliant, Potter. You were good partly because of talent, but mostly because Flint forced you to practice every single day until you were better than most. Who's to say I can't be just as good on a faster broom and after a holiday of training with the most refined Quidditch coaches the Malfoy name can buy?"

Harry glared, swallowing the bitter feeling as for the first time he felt the sharp end of Draco's arrogance. "You win, Draco. Alright? You seem to think being Seeker is worth it all, worth being prime Bludger target during Flint's extra training sessions, getting up at five in the morning during Quidditch season just for special team bonding time, or having to survive through practice particularly during storms under Flint's delusional belief that doing so builds endurance, and having the school's opinion of you constantly being influenced by the outcome of every game. Be my guest, Draco Malfoy, and good luck."

It was a good speech. Unfortunately for Harry, Draco had other plans. Like the countless villains before his time, he was spoilt, stubborn and proud. In the circumstance where the Seeker position would inevitably be his, he forsook such a possibility by not allowing his pride to get the better of him and the firm believe that things would be achieved, _his _way, exactly as he had imagined it. It was unavoidable that he would stop Harry again, this time with a look in his eye like he wasn't sure whether to punch Harry to just accept things the way they were.

"Potter. I resented you for catching the fish that was mine but this time, who knew you'd think so lowly of the rest of us you don't even deem us worthy of putting up a fight for? Why don't you treat me, or anyone in this school, like an equal for once?"

Harry gaped. "You _still _want to compete with me?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Why do you _think _my father bought the brooms? It was the only way I'd at least come _close _to being in your league."

He glared. "What the hell, Draco? Only a minute ago, you were telling me my Quidditch skills were nothing."

"Relax, I wasn't complimenting you. I still don't think you're brilliant. But let's face it – Snape _himself _instated you. How do you want me to compete with that?"

_-wizardry-_

The race was on, but before it had begun, yet another interruption was about to occur.

"Harry!"

Harry, purely due to the surprise in hearing her address him by his first name, turned to see Hermione Granger, huffing as she dragged an equally unfit Neville and a slightly dazed Ron with him.

"Hermione," he called back, voice conveying his surprise with a slightly mocking undertone.

"Ron told what's happening," she said hurriedly. "He says – oh Ron, why don't _you _tell him?"

Ron reddened a little as Harry turned his attention on him. "Well, er, Ginny's been talking to me and she reckons the Seekers' trials will be tweaked."

"Oh wow, Row. If _Ginny_ reckons that's the case -"

"Let me rephrase that," he quickly interrupted. "Ginny _knows _Flint'll tweak the trials."

Harry stared at the trio for a moment, puzzling over the fact that they were willingly helping him despite none of them owing him any favours or liking him particularly.

"For some reason, I'm not surprised. With his father giving the Slytherin team Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones, you'd _think _Draco would have more of a chance."

Ron's mouth dropped, momentarily distracted. Beside him, Neville too bore a look of wonder. "Nimbus Two Thousand and _Ones?__" _

Hermione sighed, almost disgusted. "Harry, what Ron's trying to say is that Flint's altered the games so that _neither _of you have a high chance of winning."

"Why on Earth would he do _that, _might I ask? The two of us are Slytherin's only hope."

"I wouldn't speak so fast," Ron said darkly. "Slytherin's been winning for years before either of you came to Hogwarts. Flint'll definitely find a way."

"Harry, you've _got _to be careful," Hermione added worriedly. "You're the best Seeker Hogwarts has seen in decades. If _you _don't even have a chance…"

Harry sighed. "Not that I'm not touched or anything but knowing the trials won't be fair still doesn't change anything. I'm still going to compete. Draco's still going to compete. Thanks for the message and I'll be careful – I planned to be anyway – but just calm yourselves. Quidditch was _made _to be dangerous."

_-wizardly-_

And so the race was on, yet again. With Harry and Draco both on an advantage, all other hopefuls for the Seeker position of the Slytherin Quidditch team had withdrawn, content with spectating the final tryout.

"Unsurprisingly," Flint began as the crowd cheered the appearance of the two Seeker contenders, "this year happens to be the largest turnout to any Slytherin tryout…possibly _any _Hogwarts Quidditch team tryout. Seeing as it's obvious most of you are here just to check out the competition, let me say this: Both Potter and Malfoy are highly competitive, talented and intelligent individuals, some areas slightly more developed than others. Of course, it _would _break my heart if I have to chuck both of them out but I'm willing to do so if the rivalry becomes too…violent. And believe me, we have a _brilliant _alternative."

Translation: If I see blood, both of you are dead.

"For the rest of you that are here to support who you believe to be the best Seeker, let's hope you'll continue that spirit when the Slytherin Quidditch team opens the season next month."

_Yeah, right._

"It's quite easy," Flint said, looking very proud of himself. "We've duplicated a Snitch thirteen times. The lot of you have ten minutes to track down as many of them as possible. The one who hands to me the most number of Snitches is the winner. You may, of course, use a wand but bear in mind that all the Snitches have already been warded from being summoned. In the likelihood that neither of you end up anything, then the two of you'll be placed as reserves and I'll have Weasley be my Seeker."

Draco and Harry looked at each other, as did most of the Slytherins who'd heard Flint's words. "Flint, you've gone right barmy you have. You actually believe Slytherin still stands a chance with that bumbling buffoon?"

Ron Weasley horrified face was only too eager to agree.

Flint snorted. "Calm yourselves, all of you. Relax, it's the youngest Weasley I'm talking about. You know, _Ginevra?__"_

Almost immediately, whispers broke out. Ginny had been a somewhat mystery character in Slytherin. While she remained loyal to her house, she had also made no attempts to befriend anyone – except for Cassiopeia Black. What was even stranger was that Cass seemed to welcome the friendship, something that Harry just didn't understand, what with Cass disliking the other Weasleys almost as much as Harry. Flint's decision to consider Ginny on the Quidditch team only confirmed her place in Slytherin as a mystery. Harry almost felt guilty for having not considered her of much importance when Ron had sought to warn him earlier.

Up in the stands, the Weasley twins were also busy keeping their tempers in check. "Potter, you'd _better _hold onto your Snitches if you want to see tomorrow!" One of them yelled out. Clearly, her brothers had _not _been informed of her aspirations for Quidditch.

"We'll begin on the count of three," Flint warned. "One…Two…THREE!"

The two of them left the ground for the air in synchronised fashion and speed, Draco's superior broom matched by Harry's skill. Below them, the crowd cheered though for whom, Harry was reluctant to know.

"Malfoy," he called. "May the worthiest Seeker win."

Draco nodded before zooming off to another part of the Pitch. The move was so obviously because he didn't want to compete against Harry for the same Snitch, and Harry couldn't help but smirk a little at Draco's intimidation.

Within seconds, his first Snitch was spotted and within the minute, caught. Cheers resounded below him as he waved it to his audience, moments later followed by another wave of applause for Draco's first.

It was during the chase of his second that he realised where the challenge truly lay: It was a difficult task to constrain _one_Snitch, but how was one supposed to hold onto two with one hand, when the other needed to be used to hold the broom? Even after captivity, the nature of the Snitch was designed so that it would virtually never cease its struggle for escape.

Holding onto two Snitches was possible. But three? Nearly impossible, Harry realised, after the fifth time his third Snitch had escaped. Malfoy was doing no better: He too had realised the problem, going so far as to contain the Snitches in his mouth. _That__'__s __desperation __for __you, __when __the __Malfoy __scion __throws __propriety __out __the __window __just __to __win __the __place __of __Slytherin __Seeker._

It was then that Harry realised something: Duplicating an object was only a temporary spell, especially should it be performed by a magically-incompetent wizard such as Flint. It was something that not many would care to remember, but Harry knew that if it were the case, if Harry were to somehow find the original Snitch and force all other copies to erase themselves, then there would perhaps be no need to bother Seeking thirteen times.

All he needed to do was find the original Snitch.

"Three Snitches, Potter," Draco's slightly muffled voice sounded smugly before he dived after his most recent catch as it attempted to escape from his mouth.

He needed to work and work fast.

_Among the Fundamental Laws of Magic, it is stated that magically duplicated objects are never real, only somewhat of an impression. That could only mean that the real Snitch would be faster. It would be the hardest thing in the sky to catch._

Perhaps Flint had known all along. Perhaps Flint had engineered it as such so that even with the realisation that only real Snitch mattered, it would be impossible to change the odds in one's favour.

If the only possibility of distinguishing the real Snitch is by its relative speed, it would mean all the Snitches flying together and the real one being the fastest. That would also be impossible. _There __has __to __be __another __way. __Think __Potter, __think._

He pursued the flicker of gold he spotted racing past his head, thinking it was about time he caught something in case the audience became suspicious. Gold.

Of course. The official name of the Snitch was The…_Golden__…_Snitch.

_The Principle Exceptions of Gamp's Law states that gold cannot be copied or duplicated, especially if it's goblin-crafted. The real Snitch would be the one whose lustre is the brightest._

He now had two clues: First that the real Snitch would be the fastest and swiftest, second that it would be the shiniest. Still, with the Snitches scattered over the Pitch, it would be impossible to identify just which was the real Snitch.

Or was it?

For nearly a year, Flint had trained him ruthlessly to seek out any Snitch within minutes. After having his eyesight magically repaired in the holidays, his abilities at spotting the slightest flicker of gold had only improved. He had, inarguably, caught hundreds of Snitches in his short time as Slytherin Seeker, so much that it should be near _instinct _for him to tell which Snitches were fake, if only he could use his brain. All he needed to do now was spot the real Snitch.

_Why __hadn__'__t __I __thought __of __it __that __way?_ His eyes narrowed at the Snitch he chasing after. As he drew closer, within millimetres until it was almost ridiculous to miss such a catch, he stopped concentrating on merely _catching _it but began to channel his concentration into _observing _it.

He was right – he _could _tell, even if it was subtly, even if it was his subconscious sending him vague feelings. This was not the right Snitch.

He retracted his hand, only for the Snitch to fall straight into Malfoy's awaiting arms. "Alright there, Potter?" Draco called smugly. "That's four Snitches I've got. You'll need five to beat me."

"Two minutes!" Draco sent him another smirk before flying down to Flint; he didn't need to catch more Snitches, for both of them knew it was impossible for Harry to catch as much as five within minutes.

This was it, he knew. There was no other way to win, other than to find and catch the real Snitch. Harry ignored the booing of the audience, traced the Pitch with hard eyes and sighed. It was time to use the talent he was born with.

Never in his life had he concentrated so hard to Seeking. Never in his life had he felt his anger, defiance and willpower rise so high. Never in his life had he felt such a determination to prove herself. Indeed, _this _was what Hermione Granger saw in her education, _this _was what his Great-Aunt Cassiopeia wished him to be in everything he did.

He was _made _to catch that bloody Snitch.

_-wizardry-_

His feet landed on the ground as the spectators reached six in their countdown and despite the sniggers of ridicule and arrogance amongst the crowd, he felt more triumphant than ever.

"Time to count the Snitches now. Shall we?" Flint goaded. "Malfoy, how many did your Nimbus Two Thousand and One get you?"

Harry swallowed a smirk at Malfoy's face in response to Flint's wording. "Four," he said shortly. "The last…escaped from my mouth."

The general population sniggered at his discomfort. "That's alright, Malfoy," Flint said delightedly. "Parkinson still doesn't mind."

This time, _Harry_ laughed.

"And now onto the great Boy-Who-Lived. Show us your catch, will you?"

Harry grinned, holding out the one Snitch he'd bothered with catching.

Flint peered at it, and Harry knew he _knew _the Snitch wasn't real. Harry also knew that unless he said something about it, Flint was happy to pretend he'd lost. It certainly made accepting Malfoy's broomsticks easier.

"You've lost, Potter," Draco called out triumphantly.

The crowd seemed to agree, with viewers only too eager to join in on Malfoy's moment of triumph. In a rare show of school unity, all four houses cheered, some for Draco, most just pleased that Slytherin's most competent player was being replaced. No one did anything to stop them, not even Flint who watched his audience with a wry grin.

The celebratory moment merely continued until it became prolonged and stale. The audience, sliding confused as to why no one (not even Harry Potter) had done anything to calm them down, paused, sensing something instrumental in altering the path of Hogwarts Quidditch history being on the brink of occurrence.

They were right.

Harry Potter winked.

He merely winked, but it was enough to signal to his many watchers that, indeed, the Boy-Who-Lived (-Twice) had yet another plan up his sleeve.

The boy smirked. "Draco, oh Draco. Do I _ever _lose so quietly?"

He carefully lifted his prize up until it glimmered sharply under the sun, enough to silence everyone at the Quidditch Pitch.

"Observe my catch, Draco. There is something inherently different about my Snitch and yours. Not only is it shinier, it moves more much faster and more elusively than any of yours will ever fly, Draco. That, you see, is because I have caught the real Snitch."

Draco paled, his face slowly losing its smugness.

"At the same time, there is a remarkable law in the Quidditch Handbook which every Quidditch player in the world knows and knows well – and that is that in every game there is but one Snitch and one alone.

"Now the loophole here, which Flint was well aware, was that no rule forbids the duplication of the Snitch, as long as catching it doesn't count. In all technicalities Draco, your four catches are worthless because they are duplications. I win because not only do I _have _a real Snitch, but I am also able to present to Flint _more _Snitches than you have."

Silence filled the stands as the spectators simply stared at him in disbelief. Flint took the moment to cancel the charm, instantly vanishing the four Snitches Draco had in his hands. Just as Harry had predicted, the true Snitch remained struggling between his fingers. Heart filled with triumph and sweet victory, he'd never seen anything more beautiful.

Flint sighed, almost in defeat. "You're right, Potter. Now that's why you make a fine Seeker – you use your brains. A little _too_much most of the time but, still…Malfoy, you'll be a Chaser. As for everyone else, official results will be posted in the Slytherin Common Room by tomorrow morning."

The crowds dispersed, some offering a congratulatory gesture, many whom he'd realised to be from other houses simply shook their heads in incredulity as they walked past him, by now almost used to his constant defiance of the odds.

"Harry!" Marietta and Cho had also come to the Slytherin tryouts, both offering their joy in his victory. He took it in stride, resisting the urge to cringe or shrink away.

"Thanks, er, Marietta, Cho."

Draco accepted his new position with much-admired stoicism. "Next year, Potter," he warned. "Mark my words. Next year, _I__'__ll _be Seeker."

Harry grinned. "We'll see, Malfoy. We'll see."

The two stared at each other for a while before Harry extended his hand. "Shake on it?"

"Will do."

They grinned, their rivalry temporarily over.

The gang regrouped as they made their way back to the castle, Blaise offering half-hearted congratulations whilst Daphne rolled his eyes at their reconciliation. Things were back to the way they'd always seemed.

"My father's rather miffed about you _and _Granger beating me last year," Draco casually admitted as they walked. "Warned me I'd better beat you in _something _this year."

"It's been a week, Draco. You have time."

Things _were_ back to the way they'd always seemed, but Harry had emerged from the incident slightly more disillusioned.

How frail his friendship with Slytherin seemed. Whilst his friends were somewhat loyal and supportive, they didn't hesitate to lose faith in him and change alliances at the first sight of a stronger opponent.

"We didn't say he'd definitely get Seeker, Harry," Blaise later defended. "Just that he'd definitely get on the team."

How tempted he was to believe them. The fact that even _Granger, _whom he'd despised nearly all of first year, had at least bothered to warn him of the trials when his friends had deserted all faith in him only made him angry at the changing nature of his friendship with the Slytherins and slightly guilty at his cold treatment of them. _Jesus, __my __enemies __care __more __about __me __than __my __closest __friends __do. __What __does __that __tell __me __about __friendship?_

Amidst all the drama and triumph, perhaps the last thing on his mind would be the murderous look of hatred Ginny Weasley had sent him as he'd raised the Snitch.

_-wizardry-_

Notes:

First, apologies for taking virtually forever. I know I say this every single update, but the next chapter has over 3000 words so it's well under way. Expect a _much _quicker update.

This chapter dealt with quite a lot of things. We'll begin with the characters introduced this month: Luna and Ginny. I really, really dislike the whole googly-eyed-fan-girl Ginny that JKR initially starts off with, but since I also dislike altering characters too much out of scope, the Ginny here will exist for a _very _short time as her character in the canon Potter-verse. Here, I imagined Voldemort's fury and thirst for revenge to be greater and thus his compelling of Ginny to be stronger. Furthermore, if you're a Dark Lord whose not just after resurrecting himself (as in the canon) but also revenge for the kid who thwarted you _twice,_you'd think to do a little more than just stay in the shadows... And so, Ginny's character will change. Greatly. The Heir to Slytherin will be a far greater darkness over Hogwarts this time round.

So what happened in Ginny's Sorting? The two voices she had heard, for those who were confused, was the Sorting Hat (the Founders' essence) and the diary (Tom Riddle's essence). What I found interesting was that these wizards, both great and powerful but very different, both left an impression of themselves in an object. Ginny, who carried the diary with her at the time of her Sorting, was momentarily and half-heartedly taken over by Tom Riddle. There became two voices – one of the Sorting Hat, which existed in the folds of the hat, the other of Riddle, which was in her _mind. _The voice that had called out Slytherin wasn't the Hat, who had been about to place her in Hufflepuff. It was Riddle, in his only and successful attempt to break past the barriers of the pages of his diary and actually temporarily dominate over the Sorting Hat. As for why no one suspected anything or thought about how the Sorting Hat sounded different, they simply didn't expect anything out of the ordinary to happen and if something _were_to happen, they'd probably take it in stride as a daily norm, what with Harry Potter in the castle. In Harry's Sorting, let me just remind you all, he pulled out the _Sword __of __Gryffindor_.

Now about Luna: I don't really get people's love for her, because personally, I find her daydreaming really, really annoying. But what she _does _bring is a completely different mentality. Her ability to see things in a new light (no matter how often this light is wrong) is going to be quite refreshing for Harry, who's surrounded by cynical Slytherins. Luna, I'm happy to say, will _not _be in Slytherin, but in a sense she will also never belong in Ravenclaw. I hate how people ignore her in the canon series, though it can't be helped, but what I _do_believe is that if Luna had been a character much admired and respected, if people hadn't seen her as weird or Loony but as _quirky _or _original, _how different Hogwarts would have been!

Cass Back the first is as great and arrogant as always. Yes, she is dying. I plan on following the timeline of the Black family tree, in which case she should be dead by the end of 1992. Here, she's become one of the driving forces that push a reluctant Harry towards his path of greatness. Like I've said before, I hate changing canon characterisation too much, and it was quite difficult to write such a bitter Harry into the story. One thing I refuse to change is Harry's self-motivation, or lack of. In the canon, he never really tried too hard at school. Here, that is still partly the case – Harry _isn__'__t _a Hermione. He isn't some genius and doesn't love the thought of studying. What catapults him instead are the various driving forces in his life. Last year, characters like Hermione and Snape influence him. This year, one of them shall be Cassiopeia Black (the First).

Now I don't know if anyone has noticed, but something is beginning to change in this chapter. Harry is growing up. He realises quite a lot of things here. Not only is the whole idea of houses kind of ridiculous and instrumental in the splitting of society, the realisation that he's going to have to step up as a leader beginning to settle in, an consciousness of the futility of prejudice emerging, but he's also understood something about friendship. Draco and Hermione shifted places for a minute here. What I wanted to do was play with the idea of friendship. What Harry needs to know is that friendship is not only frail at times, but it can also change. Who we are friends with today may not always be friends with us tomorrow. Harry's friends all lead lives of their own and their livelihoods don't revolve around _him. _Furthermore, who we are friends with should not depict who we are. Harry may be a Slytherin, but just because people expect him to be an elitist doesn't mean he should follow their lead.

Draco's confrontation with Harry also served another purpose: it aimed at making Harry more humble. What Harry is beginning to realise is that he is becoming someone the old Harry would have hated, someone like Dudley or maybe even worse, and in order to gain and secure respect, he needs to stop expecting others to always treat him like a prince. The world

Next chapter: Gilderoy Lockhart (I had really, really wanted to introduce him in this chapter, but alas, Quidditch is more important), Barty Crouch Snr, Colin Creevey (can't believe I forgot about him!), more Ron (hopefully), lots of Cass the First…and Bathilda Bagshot.

Also, to impatient readers asking me about James Potter, never fear. He _will _turn up (I'm really trying to speed through the first few years but it's not easy), but meanwhile just enjoy the ride.

Happy reading!

MaskWithATruth


	10. Chapter the fifth: second year part b

Disclaimer: Not mine. JKR's.

_Chapter the fifth_

_part b_

_I suppose it's a changed story now. A good leader serves his people. He acts in their interests and for their advantage and their sake, even if he has to sacrifice something to get there. Funny how it took Albus Dumbledore destroying what remained of my childhood for me to realise that._

_-wizardry-_

"Just let it go, will you Potter?"

It was a phrase Daphne Greengrass had uttered time and again in the last two weeks as Harry continued to ponder over Hermione Granger's motives for attempting to warn him about the tweaked Seeker trials. As one of his many friends who had temporarily deserted him in the face of defeat, she was determined to put all that had conspired during the trials far behind her. The others, perhaps not as vocal as her, silently all agreed.

Harry just gave her a look that made her unusually squeamish.

_Unfortunately for you, Daphne Greengrass, far too many people have betrayed me, lied to me and left me behind and I have learnt the lesson now to _never_ forgive and forget. Pity you had to learn the hard way, but that Granger of all people having more sense of friendship and loyalty just tells me something when it comes to choosing my seconds in a death duel, doesn't it? Don't _ever _count on me forgetting. _

Draco Malfoy was another story altogether – unlike Daphne and Blaise, he didn't even _want _forgiveness. It was, Harry knew without a doubt, the type of Malfoy pride his great-aunt Cassiopeia only _wished _he could have just as much of, that lengthy pureblood conceit that made Draco think he was entitled to everything and if he wasn't, then the world wasn't spinning right on its axis and his father would have to step in till it was.

In class, Draco sat a seat in front of Harry, back straight as if thinking the entire world was inspecting his every action, actually taking notes instead of what the two of them and Blaise used to do in class – listen half-heartedly while making sly comments. Malfoy had by no means turned into an adult, but it was obvious there was one thing he prided more than friendship with the Boy-Who-Lived and that was his father's opinion of him.

He was actually making an attempt to work for the title of brightest Second Year.

If he was waiting for any comment on Harry's part however, Harry stayed silent. If anything, such an act only inspired competition. Pansy, seeing Draco's studious nature, suddenly appeared to class one day with a pile of books that had stayed permanently under her arms for the past two weeks. Daphne, in losing the friend she'd always relied on to gossip together, resorted to Millicent, whose slight resentment of half of Slytherin house resulted in the two of them both staying uncomfortably quiet and naturally focussed in class. Harry and Blaise, in seeing the third man of their trio had left them for his pursuit of academics, both shifted gears, adopting an equally scholarly persona, largely due to Blaise's arrogance and Harry's refusal to be left behind.

_You want to compete, Draco? Alright then, I'll give you a competition. Just don't go thinking I'm going down without a fight._

As such, the Second Year Slytherins became so diligent, so studious for those first two weeks that even the teachers had noticed.

"I am very pleased with you all today," McGonagall said to them one afternoon in a rare case of contentment. "All of you handed me in an essay that far exceeded my expectations of you. I don't know what it is Severus is trying with you but every single one of you has for the past few weeks…performed exceptionally. You are excused from class for the rest of the day." She turned to face their Gryffindor counterparts, who watched, wide-eyed and stunned. "Of course, this side of the room to should do more to learn from their classmates. Ronald Weasley, don't think I'm not talking to you too…"

It was all Harry could do not to break into a snigger.

"Merlin we should study more often," Pansy said excitedly as soon as they were out.

This time, Harry _did _laugh. To hear Pansy Parkinson of all people proclaiming the desire to study of all things was something he'd never expected.

They spent the rest of afternoon lounging lazily near the lake, chatting amongst themselves (with a fierce determination to achieve the same results with Binns, Pansy was now rewriting her History of Magic essay). It was here that Daphne noticed Harry's quietness and, when she had inquired over it and received a reply, slightly coloured before hastily saying, "Just let it go, will you Potter?" It was also here that Harry made up his mind: as much as he loathed it, he was going to confront Hermione about it. He owed that much to her, at least.

It was not a difficult task to track her down. Unsurprisingly, she was spending her time in the library and seemed hardly perturbed when he approached her. "Harry," was what she said, something even his friends rarely used.

He decided to cut it to the chase. "Granger, _why _did you help me?"

Hermione seemed almost prepared for the answer, shooting him a look. "Would you rather I hadn't?"

"It wouldn't have made that great a difference either way, but I was under the impression that you hated me about as much as I did of you."

She rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Potter. The world isn't black and white, and neither is friendship. Haven't you heard about hatred in degrees?"

_Um, no? _"What?"

"Obviously, I loathe Draco Malfoy, but to the extent that my hatred of him is greater than my hatred of You-Know-Who? I think not. I never said anything about liking you, Harry, but I _do _find you more bearable than the rest of your house and no matter what others believe or what you want them to believe, you _are _a good person."

He stared. It was something he had never expected an enemy or rival to understand, never anticipated even his closest companions to cope with and as he walked out of the library wordlessly, truly didn't know what to say.

_-wizardry-_

Naturally, the year could not be complete without the presence of some source of annoyance. Last year, it'd been Ron Weasley. While by Second Year Ron Weasley's existence remained indisputable, a new figure had come, vastly outshining Ron's capacity to annoy the cohort by far.

Gilderoy Lockhart.

To give the man his credit, he wasn't _completely _talentless. There were two things Lockhart was remarkable at achieving: Somehow bewitching the female half of the school into a simpering mess of giggles and sighs, and turning the once respectable subject of Defence Against the Dark Arts into a joke.

By the end of Harry's first Defence lesson under the tutelage of an actual professor who supposedly specified in the area of Defence, he was not only disappointed (Lockhart hardly measured up to Flitwick or Snape) and irritated ("_five_-times winner of _Witch Weekly's _best smile, of course. I think Mister Potter will agree with me when I say that's not a feat even being the Boy-Who-Lived can beat.") but also completely, utterly convinced that Lockhart was either a very accomplished liar who'd charmed his way into gaining his Order of Merlins or secretly had dual personalities, one of which he hid very, very well.

Harry guessed the former too.

"Merlin Potter, you should have seen your face." Blaise delighted in Harry's humiliation. "Hot enough to fry an egg, I'll bet."

In addition to Lockhart's incompetence, the man also elated in re-enacting his various acts of great courage, for which the role of werewolf/banshee/Creature of Interest would, undoubtedly, be carried out by the one and only Harry Potter.

"Now tell me, my dear students. What is the most _important _thing when it comes to carrying out a heroic deed?" Lockhart, with his oblivious and pompous smile, often preened to his female audience. Harry often rolled his eyes. "Now Harry, I can understand your jealousy but I advise you quite sincerely to listen to this piece of advice."

Lockhart smiled mysteriously before leaning in a little. "The most important thing a hero must always remember to do is look his best."

At this, even Hermione seemed slightly incredulous.

"Now, everyone, do you _really _think I defeated that banshee purely with my _magical abilities?" _At their disbelief, Lockhart was very offended. "It isn't coincidence that I managed to garner – five times, do remember – the title of _Witch Weekly's _Best Smile. Nor is it a triviality that I have also been commended, many times of course, on my extremely sensitive wardrobe wisdom."

He strutted forward, chest puffed shoulders rolled back to show off the suit he had worn for the day. "Observe if you will this costume. Now the material I have covering my front and arms are, in fact, genuine shed skin of a three-year-old Norwegian Ridgeback. Not only do these dragons have extremely beautiful skin – and make an even better-looking suit I must say – but texture is fine enough to allow much-needed ventilation during battle, as well as the solid defence of a fire-proof, tear-proof and curse-proof shield." He smiled happily. "Handy, won't you call it?"

It was indeed rather useful, something Harry was quick to make a note of for the next time he was forced into a death or life situation that mercifully provided him with a moment to dress up. But while the resourcefulness of dragon skin was interesting, for Defence Against the Dark Arts, it only heightened Lockhart's ineptitude, as even Harry knew that a truly accomplished wizard wouldn't be someone who relied on their appearance, or any expensive and fanciful accessories, to save the day.

"I suppose you'll need to do something about him," Blaise said offhandedly as Harry continued to fume over his latest embarrassment in Defence during lunch. "Any handy Wizengamot or emancipated wizard privileges we should know about?

Harry sighed. "I suppose I _will _need to do something."

A year ago, he would have reacted very differently. So distinct was that bitter, sarcastic little boy that he knew exactly what he would've said. _I suppose it's a changed story now. A good leader serves his people. He acts in their interests and for their advantage and their sake, even if he has to sacrifice something to get there. _He smiled wryly. _Funny how it took Albus Dumbledore destroying what remained of my childhood for me to realise that. _

It was like scratching madly at half-healed wounds. While he and Dumbledore maintained a civil distance, the disillusioned unfortunately never forgot. It only made him madder when he speculated his headmaster's reaction, should he confide in him the wrong choice of appointing Lockhart. _Who am I kidding – you'll just continue upholding that cheerful, oblivious front of yours, selectively listening and conveniently blind in the subjects you'd rather avoid. How can I possibly trust _you _to fire Lockhart?_

"Give me a week," he said softly. "I'll see what I can do."

_Then again, I suppose your shortcomings are what made me all the stronger. You forced me to grow up and consider beyond my bitter little shell of resentment and righteousness. So thank you, Dumbledore, for giving me the incentive to act. _

"What _are _you boys up to now?" Pansy seemed delighted, having been bored out of her mind with the lack of drama and activity her house was involved in this year.

Harry couldn't help but grin. He too was slightly excited by the prospect of finally doing something after an eventful First Year. That along with his suffering education made him only too happy to act.

"We're going to expose the _real _Gilderoy Lockhart to the world."

_-wizardry-_

It took two days for Harry to issue a complaint to Barty Crouch Snr, combining the school's genuine concern over the education standards and teaching methods of Gilderoy Lockhart, with Harry's obvious affluence over Crouch's position as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot.

Draco, in his usual element, held his doubts. "Mark my words, Potter. Crouch would sooner bribe the school governors than ever help you fairly," he said darkly. "And when that happens, you can bet your last galleon the _Daily Prophet _will get a hold of it and there'll be hell to pay."

"Crouch," Harry retorted, "is not your father."

Hours after sending his letter, Harry smugly relished in the look on Draco's face as he stared disbelievingly at the reply Crouch had sent him.

_The Educational Decree I have implemented is paramount to the upbringing of the Wizarding World's future, Mister Potter. As such, I will personally visit Hogwarts in ten days' time to assess Mister Lockhart's performance. Should I find him unsatisfactory, I will immediately find you a replacement and remove Mister Lockhart from his teaching position._

Blaise snickered. "Not a bad start, eh Malfoy?"

Draco glowered.

"So all that's left for us to do is expose Gilderoy as a charlatan, I suppose?" said Daphne. "The only problem is, how are you so sure that he is actually incompetent? He could be a brilliant wizard deep, deep down -"

"It doesn't matter how much brilliance is down there when we have to drill for it, does it? The fact is, his only reason for being in Hogwarts is to teach, and he's obviously failing at that. We need to expose his incompetence as a teacher."

Millicent rolled her eyes. "That's easy. Crouch only needs to stay for one lesson with Lockhart."

Draco snorted. "If only life was that simple, Bulstrode. To fire him, Crouch doesn't need to just see his ineptitude as a teacher – he needs to see his incompetence as a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher."

Draco's ingenuous statement was met with both agreement and uncertainty. Harry, for one, silently approved but out loud he voiced everyone's questions. "What do you want to do then, catch a Dark creature, unleash it into the classroom with us _and _Lockhart in it, and then just hope for the best? Do you have a death wish?"

Draco and Blaise both frowned at Harry's words. "I suppose it'll have to be something difficult to defeat but relatively harmless," Draco said slowly.

"For Lockhart, even crosswords pose a challenge," Harry muttered. "It'll have to be something really, really impressive. Something only an exceptional Defence Against the Dark Arts professor would be able to defend against."

The lot of them thought for a moment.

"Dementors?" Blaise suggested.

_-wizardry-_

"Professor Snape," Harry began, feeling uncomfortably formal. "I have a…favour I'd like to ask of you."

Snape briefly looked up from the potions essay he was marking to shoot him an unamused look. "No, Potter. If it involves the Ministry of Magic, Hogwarts and the press in any way, then absolutely not."

_Well. That does make it harder. _"What if it only involved two of the three?"

"Oh? An improvement? Then I commend you."

He pushed his luck. "Or how about just Hogwarts, the press…" He winced. "…and the Wizengamot?"

Snape sighed. He put down his quill and folded his arms exasperatedly. "What are the chances that I will succeed in stopping you?"

Harry paused to think for a moment. "Well, the _chance_ is always there, but the possibility? Not the greatest, no."

"And in assuming that whatever plan you are once again brewing with that ill-placed mind of yours is not illegal, how may I be of service?" Snape drawled sarcastically.

_Yes! _Harry grinned. "Well, not much really. We only need you to help us come up with a plan to expose our Defence professor's incompetence, help us execute it, and we'll take over the rest."

"You require my service in aiding you concoct with yet another idiotically overdramatic, media-exposed scenario so as to expose the obvious ineptitude of your Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, all the while assuming it will be achievable and that should it fail, I would not, of course, be held liable."

Harry blinked. "Er, yes?"

Snape frowned disapprovingly. "Well. I must say, this was not what I expected. I am disappointed in you, Mister Potter.".

Harry's eyes widened with incredulity. "What?"

"You are supposed to be the brightest of your generation, Potter. You've survived two Killing Curses, engineered a near impossible emancipation, swiftly followed by the stripping of Albus Dumbledore's Wizengamot title, and a genius scheme that crowned Bartemius Crouch as new leader of the Wizengamot, even survived a summer in Cassiopeia Black's residence…and yet your mind is empty when it comes to humiliating a brainless charlatan?"

Not really knowing how to answer, and slightly grateful that of all things his Head of House was disappointed in it was this, he shrugged. "I suppose."

Snape's eyes flicked upwards for a moment, no doubt in question of his remaining sanity. "Have you ever considered Hogwarts, Mister Potter?"

Harry blinked. "Pardon?"

"Hogwarts, Potter, is a magical castle. Beyond students and teachers, it harbours an infestation of ghosts, living portraits, and ancient magic. Defeating Hogwarts itself will be a feat even the most powerful are scarce to boast."

"So you're saying we wait for Hogwarts to present him a challenge?"

"Perhaps the challenge already exists. Peeves or another immature gesture of welcome by the Weasley twins on Hogwarts' behalf, one of the many eccentric objects currently lying in Caretaker Filch's confiscation draw – simple yet challenging…adventures shall we say, for Lockhart to find himself in the crossfires of. Sometimes, Mister Potter, It takes the simplest of things for one to lose faith."

_-wizardry-_

"Let me get this right," one of the Weasley twins repeated slowly. "You want the two of us to, what was it, instil chaos-"

"-bring about disorder and destruction-"

"-essentially orchestrate trouble roughly the propensity of a Hungarian Horntail-"

"-in Lock-fart's Defence classroom-"

"-when the _Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot _is here-"

"-and in return…you'll pay us?"

Harry winced a little. "Pretty much."

The twins looked at each other. "Why should we trust you?"

Harry sighed, having forgotten to even consider the likelihood of the twins ever needing convincing to cause trouble. "First," he said slowly, racking his brain, "first, we'll draw out a contract. Second, I'll give you five days' time to think it over. And third…" he shrugged. "I'm willing to _pay _you. You have nothing much to lose and fifty galleons to gain."

At the last part, the two of them glared, clearly insulted. "We mightn't be as rich as the great Boy-Who-Lived, Potter."

"But don't think for a minute that us Weasleys aren't proud too."

Harry inwardly snorted. _And I suppose Ron's the next door neighbour's kid, is he? _He didn't for even a second think the Weasleys weren't bluffing. Fifty galleons was a phenomenal sum for a family who couldn't even afford to provide all its children with new robes. The twins, as scheming as they were, clearly hoped to milk Harry for what he was worth.

_Alright then. Let's up the ante. We'll play _your_ game. _

"One hundred galleons then."

…_with _my _rules._

"But with conditions of course. If either of you are caught, my name will be completely left out of this. Your target is solely Lockhart – no student, staff or guest will come to any harm. The two of you will only carry about your tasks during the period Crouch visits this school. And lastly," Harry leaned in a little, "_no one _is to know."

The twins smirked. "Forget about the five days, mate. We have a deal."

And just like that, Harry found himself a ploy.

_-wizardry-_

Two days before Crouch was scheduled to arrive, a few things happened.

First, Harry glanced at the cover of the _Daily Prophet _only to catch the headline "MINISTRY LEAKS: POTTER UNHAPPY WITH HOGWARTS EDUCATION?"

Harry swore.

Not only had the bint Rita Skeeter made him out to be a spoilt, arrogant twat who ousted himself as not being aligned with either Hogwarts or the Ministry but such front-page news gave away the benefit of surprise he had specifically reserved for Lockhart (and perhaps Dumbledore) as well as the Hogwarts students.

Then Harry turned the page. Only to see yet another misery-instilling caption. "BWL COMPLAINS TO WIZENGAMOT LAPDOG"

Unsurprisingly, the second thing that occurred that day was Harry receiving Crouch's letter, stating his visit to Hogwarts would _"as of yet to be adjourned."_

"'As of yet'? What does he mean 'as of yet'?" It was understandably offending. Crouch may have been polite, the thought behind the letter may have made complete sense, but Harry couldn't help but feel as if he was being patronised by a man who thought he knew better, and more.

_For Merlin's sake, I'm the official owner of his seat. I'm the reason he was even _considered _Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. We should be on the same boat, in this together…so why is he just deserting me at the moment of scandal? How'm I to rely on him if all he'll do in the future is bail out on me?_

Draco was naturally smug. "I'll refrain from saying I told you so Potter," he drawled, "but just keep in mind that I'm relishing in my victory."

Harry glared. "Victory, Malfoy? Since when did it turn into a contest? How victorious would you like to feel being years behind every other Wizarding school in Defence, failing in your OWLs and NEWTs knowing you might've had the slightest chance of passing had Lockhart not existed, and having to explain to your father just how exactly you'd managed to learn absolutely nothing in one of the most important subjects in Wizarding school?"

Draco paled but refrained from retorting. Daphne meanwhile clicked her tongue. "Calm down, will you Harry? Hitting dead ends isn't exactly a first for you and I don't see how this is any different."

"Daphne, the whole of Wizarding England thinks I'm a bloody pillock and Crouch is refusing to help me for fear of being called my lapdog."

Daphne rolled her eyes. "So melodramatic, Potter. You clearly have no calling as a politician." She smoothed out Crouch's letter. "First of all, Crouch isn't _deserting _you, he's just postponing his visit until, obviously, when the hype over the two of you have died down. See there – he says his visit will be 'adjourned', not completely cancelled. You should know that him coming as planned will only cause more uproar, for both of you."

"I don't think Crouch is refusing to help you either," Blaise chimed in. "Actually, he's probably waiting for _you _to do something – you _are _the owner of your seat, and technically _his_ boss. If anything, he's the one waiting for _your _initiative."

"Thank you Zabini for stealing the words right out of my mouth," Daphne continued, slightly annoyed. "That's where I reach my second point. See the words 'as of yet'? Crouch is hinting that something needs to be done about the current situation so that he _would _be able to come to Hogwarts. He hasn't pointed any fingers yet as to who should be the one to solve the problem – you _should _be the one to do something, but seeing as how you're twelve, still in school, maybe just a _little _bit inexperienced…"

"Then _he'll_ probably take action if I don't do something soon," Harry finished. He thought for a moment before casually musing, "The way you're putting it, Daphne, it almost sounds like a test. Like he wants to see what I'm capable of before he does what he'll normally do in the situation. See if I'm worthy or not, I suppose."

There came a pause as everyone stared at Harry incredulously.

"What? I mightn't in the same league as you scheming lot, but that doesn't make me completely incompetent, you know."

"Of _course_," Draco muttered. "This _would _be the first time the two of you have dealt together face to face. Crouch is probably waiting to see just what his patron is capable of."

And that, Harry thought, was a very good question.

_-wizardry-_

"I have a question for you, Granger," Harry began as he sat himself down, unsurprisingly, at a table in the library.

Hermione nodded, wryly and almost dutifully. "Yes, you seem to have quite a lot of those."

Feeling slightly stupid, he cleared his throat. "Say if I needed to…I dunno, clear the air with the Wizarding World and all…how do you suppose I'd go about doing it?"

Hermione thought for a moment. "Percy."

"What?"

"Percy Weasley. You know, Ron's brother?" she enunciated impatiently. "This is about you and Crouch, isn't it?" At the evident surprise on Harry's face, she rolled her eyes. "Despite what you may think, I _do _read the _Daily Prophet, _you know."

"Trust me Granger, I don't doubt you." He frowned. "But why Percy?"

Of all things, Hermione smiled (perhaps the first time she'd done so in his presence) mysteriously. "I can't give you _all _the answers. I guess you'll just have to find out for yourself."

Harry nodded. Then, in a rare moment of confession, he said, "you know, I'd expected expelling Lockhart from Hogwarts would be a lot easier than this."

Hermione's eyebrows shot to the ceiling. _"That's _what all this is about? Merlin, why don't you just talk to Professor Dumbledore about it? You certainly wouldn't be in the mess you're in now, would you."

Harry almost laughed at the way even she had given up defending Lockhart. If she expected him to comment on her surprising passiveness, he didn't. instead, he couldn't help but grab at the chance to take a poke at Dumbledore.

"Dumbledore? Hermione, before Lockhart, he hired _Voldemort's_ _vessel _for our Defence teacher. He'll probably employ a _werewolf_ next if I do tell him. The only thing to do now is travel down the path I've stupidly set out for myself."

That seemed to be something of a mantra to him these days. No matter what the old him had previously and bitterly thought, he was a leader now, whether he liked it or not. His only bet was to accept it and not dawdle on his actions and consequences, and figure out the road ahead.

_Just get on with it, Potter._

_And here's to hoping tomorrow will be better. _

_-wizardry-_

Notes:

Firstly, I _know _it's the third of Jan, but here's to a belated happy new year, dear readers. Let's hope at least a quarter of our resolutions this year will actually come close to being fulfilled (cough, hoping to surpass weighing 49 kg, _consciously aware_ that that will never happen).

Now most of you have probably noticed this chapter is A LOT shorter than the previous ones. Here's what I've realised: they just seem to grow and grow, and I'm taking forever to write and perfect them. As a writer, I feel so much guilt knowing I've kept my readers on edge and receiving these little messages that say 'Update. NOW.' So I've decided to try something new. Writing the first half of Harry's 2nd year has taken 3 months, and it's just grown to roughly 15,000 words. So I thought, you know what? Instead of spending another 3 months editing and perfecting, I might as well give my readers the first part. Alright, I know it's not perfect, and I _know _James Potter is STILL dead (just a sidenote, I plan to resurrect him before Harry's third year), but for those of you who wish to get somewhere with the story, please bear with me. I plan to give you slightly shorter chapters, but much quicker updates. That's my first New Year's Resolution actually. Let's hope it lasts.

MaskWithATruth


	11. Chapter the fifth: second year part c

Disclaimer: Not mine. JKR's.

_Chapter the Fifth_

_Part c_

_-wizardry-_

Percy Weasley was found in an empty Charm classroom, attempting to write something (which he very quickly hid and reddened upon seeing Harry). Within minutes of being in his presence, Harry understood why Hermione had recommended him of all people.

Percy had, to start with, political ambitions. In fact, the boy had stated numerous times after being approached that his greatest wish was to work under Barty Crouch himself. He naturally provided a wealth of information when it came to the current Ministry, most of it evidently influenced by the _Daily Prophet. _When Harry had tried to explain the actual situation (Lockhart's incompetence, his brief employment of the Weasley twins) to him, the boy had listened to his story with suspicion and disbelief, so set on simply taking in the words of his newspaper.

"That can't be right, Potter," he'd said, bewildered, "I mean, the _Daily Prophet, _it quoted Mister Crouch himself saying that without your support, he wouldn't be anywhere near leading the Wizengamot."

"Percy," Harry said patiently. "Did you not say so yourself that you wished to work under Crouch because he's painfully fair, politically and magically powerful, and unaffected by political rivals?"

Percy blinked rapidly. "Well, _yes, _but-"

"Then shouldn't you find it out of his element to listen to the words of a twelve-year-old schoolboy?"

"Well, I suppose…"

It was within Percy's absolute trust of the newspaper that Harry discovered Percy's second and greatest help. His blind faith made him realise that Percy would most likely only believe his side of the argument if it was officially published. _As would most of the unsuspecting Wizarding population._

"Percy, if I wanted the Wizarding newspapers to know something, like give out the official word and set the story straight about the situation now, what d'you think I should do?"

For a prolonged moment of suspense, Percy frowned. Then, just when Harry was about to give up, his eyes lit up. "I've got it, Potter. A press conference!"

"A _what?"_

Percy, unperturbed by Harry's incredulity, nodded excitedly before explaining. "Look, what you need to do is arrange a time and place you're willing to meet with reporters from any interested Wizarding newspaper, give your official statement, then give them an opportunity to ask you questions. It's quite simple."

Harry nodded, feeling slightly overwhelmed. He was acutely aware that this would be the first time he would come in direct contact with the Wizarding media, and as such he was nervous. "What about just arranging an interview with the _Daily Prophet? _There's really no need going so far as to invite _all _the media…"

Percy seemed impatient and slightly irritated that Harry hadn't taken to the idea as well as he should. "Do you _want_ to set the story straight or not, Potter? If you do want people to believe, you'll need to tell them yourself."

Harry sighed, already feeling the anxiety of being witnessed and judged by Britain's Wizarding community in the pit of his stomach. "Alright. _Alright. _I'll do this."

It was too late to back out now, no matter how much he wished he hadn't bothered with deposing Lockhart. Even if there _was _an alternative to holding a press conference, even if another option, a side alleyway was open, he knew that his statement to the Wizarding World was long overdue.

It was time he showed the Barty Crouchs of this world a little competence.

_-wizardry-_

For the first and perhaps only time in his life, he made his way to the Headmaster's office, willingly. Dumbledore seemed to have anticipated his visit, for he showed no sign of surprise when Harry opened his door and entered after knocking.

"Harry," he said softly, "please, do sit."

Too tired and impatient to refuse, Harry complied.

"Professor Dumbledore," he began, "you've read the _Daily Prophet _today, I trust?"

The old man smiled wryly. "My dear boy, after the shock I received last Christmas, I made it my business to personally scrutinise the _Prophet _every day before breakfast. It has become a habit I was very grateful for this morning. Alas, if only the other members of my staff had followed in my footsteps…"

Harry grimaced at Dumbledore's small talk. It was moments like this that made him empathise with the Dark Lord's fear of his old school principle. "Sir, I want to hold a press conference," he blurted out.

Dumbledore finally stopped chattering, instead staring rather searchingly at Harry's face.

"You will not find me stopping you, my boy," he said softly, "but may I inquire over the authenticity of Miss Skeeter's words?"

Harry reddened a little, suddenly remembering that Dumbledore was still Hogwarts headmaster.

"Firstly Professor, Gilderoy Lockhart can't teach to save his life." Harry allowed a moment to glance around the room before continuing. "And second, _nothing _has been done so far to actually secure the Defence teaching position with an actually _competent _– or permanent – teacher."

"And the rest of the content?"

"Exaggerated, fictional gossip."

Dumbledore nodded. "It pleases me that I was right in believing you would never wish ill of your school in the face of the Wizarding world," he said softly. "Are you familiar with holding press conferences, my boy?"

Harry coloured. "Not quite, Professor. I realised quite a while back that I can't rely solely on my capabilities – or my friends – when it comes to being a leader. That's why two of my peers will be aiding me - Percy Weasley and Hermione Granger. Percy's my conference moderator, and Hermione…well, she's got a role too."

To say Dumbledore was surprised would be an understatement. "Have none of your Slytherin friends volunteered to help?"

"No," Harry retorted indignantly, "I never asked."

There came a moment of silence as each stared at the other. Finally, Dumbledore said, "have you decided on a time or location?"

Harry nodded. "I know you won't appreciate reporters coming into the castle, so I was hoping we could arrange something next weekend, out on the Quidditch Pitch."

Dumbledore's eyebrows raised. "You are aware that not only is news coverage typically scarce on a weekend, but you have also given the Wizarding media mere days' time to scramble together an accommodating audience?"

Harry rolled his eyes at Dumbledore's disapproval. "Trust me. Percy made that point _very _clear. I'd hate to be so blatantly arrogant but it's not like I'll _need _an auspicious date to help raise media awareness."

Predictably, Dumbledore frowned at him. "And what do you hope to achieve in this conference, Harry?"

"Quite a number of things," he answered shortly. "First, I'll need to dispel the rumours about Crouch and I. Second, we need to bring to light the Educational Decrees Crouch emplaced months ago which everyone seems to have forgotten about. And third…" Harry smiled a little, "we'll completely discredit Lockhart as a capable teacher."

"Oh?" Dumbledore's frown seemed permanent now, a sure sign of another approaching battle. "You plan to humiliate Professor Lockhart in what will surely be a highly anticipated press conference?"

"Among other things, yes."

"You don't believe he deserves a chance to at least salvage his dignity, if not his abilities?"

"Dignity?" Harry echoed. "You disagree with me then?"

"I do believe you could achieve the same outcome with a different approach."

Harry shook his head. "No Professor, I don't think I can. I think it's time people actually took Defence Against the Dark Arts seriously. I'm sick of it being the joke of Hogwarts, and now Wizarding Britain. Lockhart _needs _to be humiliated, if not because his incompetence deserves it then as a reminder to the rest of the world that Hogwarts doesn't allow itself to be pushed over." He grinned a little at his headmaster, the maliciousness throwing the old man off a little. "I'm not like Fudge, Professor. I'm my own person. I've already decided I'm going to do things my way, so thanks for the advice but no thanks."

In usual fashion, Harry left the Headmaster's Office only too soon. If he had lingered, then perhaps he would have heard what Headmaster Black's portrait remarked to the silent professor, as well as the professor's reply.

"The boy's causing a far greater mess than what Fudge has ever managed," Phineas Nigellus Black spat. "Such children infiltrating the highest echelons of Wizarding society, disrespectful and undeserving…"

"The difference, Phineas," Dumbledore said softly, "is that Harry is a child who fights every day of his life for the right to be considered an adult, whereas Fudge has and will never understand the distinction between child and adulthood. Sometimes I wonder over the age limits they impose on the Minister of Magic position…"

_-wizardry-_

"Before we begin, we would just like to thank everyone who's taken the initiative to come here today. We really…appreciate it."

_Yeah, right. _

Those were the words spoken by Percy Weasley, self-proclaimed moderator of the conference who was enjoying every moment of the limelight. That the entire Quidditch Pitch had filled with eager witches and wizards came as little surprise to Harry. He had only hoped in vain that the number of onlookers would be minimal when he'd chosen an uncompromising date, and it was only expected for the Wizarding World to be interested in its saviour.

"First order of business," Percy continued. "Harry Potter would like to issue a statement concerning Rita Skeeter's recent articles in the _Daily Prophet._"

Harry inwardly sighed. That was Percy – succinct and to the point. He made a note to recommend him to Mister Crouch someday, should the man ever bother deeming his patron worth talking to.

"Potter," Hermione hissed behind him. "You're supposed to talk."

Harry cleared his throat. "Er, right." He looked up for a moment, immediately greeted with a flash of cameras that momentarily blinded him. "Before I begin, may I just ask if Mrs Skeeter is here with us today?"

The flashes paused as the crowd hesitated in slight confusion. Out stepped a beaming woman, whose puff of blonde curls contrasted ghastly with her heavy set jaw and green leather suit. Her enchanted quill was already writing furiously on a piece of parchment as she smiled flirtatiously at him.

"Hello Harry," she chirped, voice equally terrifying, "and it's _Ms _Skeeter, my dear."

Harry grimaced.

"Let me just say three things," he began, inwardly relieved that his voice did not waver. "First, I have never met Mrs Skeeter in my life. Second, the current Defence Against the Dark Arts book list consists solely of autobiographies and memoirs. And third…"

Harry took a deep breath. He turned around to face Hermione, sending her the swiftest of winks which she in turn caught. She nodded in reply, racing to the castle at break-neck speed.

Step One, complete.

"And third," he smirked, "Gilderoy Lockhart is a charlatan."

_-wizardry-_

"People, people," Percy called out. "OI! QUIET! Harry's not done yet."

Percy's latest success at quietening down half of Britain made him worthy of Harry's eternal gratitude.

"Thank you, Percy," he said when he could hear his own voice again. "All of you are confused, most of you outraged. That's understandable. Let's start from the beginning, shall we?

"I've said already that Mrs Skeeter and I-"

"_Ms, _dear."

"-have never met. Now if I have never met her, then it's obvious, isn't it, that I've also never talked to her. How then are her articles supposed to hold any modicum of authority or authenticity if even the most basic starting point of good journalism is ignored – begin with interviewing the subject?" Skeeter's mouth dropped open. It was safe to say that never in her wildest dreams had she anticipated Harry carrying any venom in his bite. "Mrs Skeeter, help me out here will you? Remind me whether or not the two of us have ever talked?"

Skeeter blinked. "N-no, dear, but quite-"

"And assuming you don't understand that interviewing Wizengamot members is strictly prohibited unless the representative's patron, in this case me, is also present," Harry continued, basking in the silence that had filled the Quidditch grounds, "did any part of your article come from private conversations specifically conducted between you and Mister Crouch?"

"Not exactly, see-"

"So when your article encloses quotation marks around phrases Crouch supposedly said, such as 'I've become the Potter boy's lapdog' and 'some Wizengamot leader that I am – doing the biddings of a preadolescent schoolboy' – whom I'm assuming is me, by the way," Harry continued, holding up his very copy of the _Daily Prophet _with one hand, "could it be that you were knowingly printing outright lies and accusations that would hold serious ramifications in a national newspaper?"

"Er, actually a little more than national, seeing it's distributed across all of Great Britain, as well as in a few of her initial colonies," Percy took the liberty of injecting.

Skeeter was both speechless and insulted. "Why – how _dare-"_

"Ah, wait, before you finish that," Harry added gleefully, "the only other possibility is that you, with the firm knowledge that it is _illegal_ to break in to the Ministry of Magic without an authorised pass, and that it is _illegal_ to abuse a citizen's right to privacy, did both anyway when you smuggled yourself into the Ministry undetected, eavesdropped on the Chief Mugwump of the Wizengamot who presumably said what you say he did…and then had the gall to write about his secrets on the front page of Wizarding Britain's most-read newspaper."

Skeeter's face blanched. The silence of the media crew seemed deafening. Somewhere in the crowd, a lone flash went off.

Harry couldn't help but burst into laughter. "Of course, everyone here knows _that_ possibility is ludicrous," he said after calming down a little. "Only a lunatic could think they'd get away with it, shouldn't they Mrs Skeeter? I mean, between admitting to have lied about everything on the front-page article of the _Daily Prophet _and choosing to throw yourself into _Azkaban_ for violating government security, which would you choose?"

Harry couldn't help but bask in the triumph and coming victory of his speech. He had, inevitably, forced Skeeter to a tight corner. Either she admitted to having a lack of journalistic integrity, and subsequently ruined her career in front of the eyes and ears of Wizarding Britain, or she admitted to breaking into the Ministry of Magic, and most likely spent the rest of her days in Azkaban. It was obvious which she would prefer – Azkaban was, after all, commonly dubbed the Worst Place on Earth. It was suicide now to admit her articles held any modicum of truth.

Either way, her career was done for.

Skeeter blinked rapidly. There might have even been tears in her eyes as she watched Harry rip twenty years of notoriety to shreds. Her speechlessness naturally became the confirmation the British Wizarding media needed to take Harry's words.

Step Two, complete.

_-wizardry-_

"Professor Lockhart!"

Lockhart turned to the panting student at his door. "Yes, my dear? Miss Granger, isn't it? The only girl in the class who successfully memorised all of my life's ambitions, and in chronological sequence no less. Yes, come in girl."

Hermione blushed. "Er, Professor, I just came from the Quidditch Pitch you see, and…"

"Spit it out, girl," Lockhart said, a touch impatient. "You of all people should know how little time I have to spare."

Hermione gulped. "I just came from the Quidditch Pitch, and a crowd of Wizarding media is swarming there!"

Lockhart blinked, then beamed. "My dear girl, thank you for informing me. I must prepare myself at once." He winked. "Here's your moment of seeing an expert at work, Miss Granger. Why don't you come down with me? I might even spare you an autograph."

As a man who deemed himself perfect, Lockhart came with many shortcomings. There was the fact that the only spell he'd performed perfectly to date was the Memory Charm, as well as that embarrassing secret in which he'd never achieved anything above Acceptable in his NEWTs, even the odd drawback on his inability to cook seafood without burning at least something. But he'd often told himself that those things were manageable. He could life with being _slightly _less than ideal.

It was most unfortunate, however, that out of all Lockhart's weaknesses, his greatest would be his vanity, for it was precisely because of such that he swiftly chose to follow Hermione to his downfall, never mind questioning why after weeks of being in Hogwarts it was only now that the Wizarding media was curious, not considering the fact that outsiders could only enter school grounds with the Headmaster's approval and that for so many to do so all at once should only mean an event out of the ordinary taking place, which he was little weary of. Not even did he hesitate to inquire the reason behind their presence.

No, his vanity led him to stupidly believe that the media was there for him and him alone.

It would take Harry less than ten minutes for the media to turn their backs on Gilderoy, enough time for Lockhart to polish up his impressive appearance, weave his way out of the castle and appear at the conference, eager and ready for his slaughter.

"Well," Gilderoy said excitedly as he examined his reflection one last time, "what are you waiting for, Miss Granger? Lead the way!"

- _wizardry-_

"Now that Mrs Skeeter has confirmed for us that her articles were completely fabricated," Harry drawled, grinning triumphantly at the defeated Skeeter, "let's get back to my second statement."

Murmurs echoed amongst the crowd. It seemed that the majority of the audience was too overwhelmed by Skeeter's sudden fall from affluence to concentrate on something else. Harry silently berated himself for having not considered such a scenario.

"Look, you came here to talk about Mister Potter and his inquiry over Lockhart's position as a Hogwarts professor," Percy cut in loudly. "If you want to interview Ms Skeeter, do that in your own time, will you?"

"Thanks, mate," Harry muttered as the crowd quietened a little.

"As I was saying," he continued, "my second point was about the book list for Defence Against the Dark Arts this year, written and assembled by Professor Lockhart himself."

Murmurs of approval resounded amongst the crowd.

"A typical booklist for First or Second years requires perhaps only one textbook, maybe two. But here's what Lockhart made us buy. Percy?"

Percy dutifully reached behind the stool Harry stood behind, drawing out a mountainous pile of books, stacked one on top of the other creating a rather impressive sight.

"Seven books," Harry drawled, "each one memoirs recounting his supposedly brave stints in defeating creatures of evil, and of course his best-selling autobiography, _Magical Me"._

A few members of the audience sighed dreamily as he held up the aforementioned book.

"There were, however, a few things Mister Lockhart forgot.

"The first, of course, is that a First Year Hogwarts student naturally doesn't have the same amount of magical knowledge, expertise or experience as a Seventh Year student. This is common sense, and even if it wasn't, the British school curriculum reflects it – it's for this reason that First Years stick to basic shields while Seventh Years move on to explore defence in battle and even the basic features of Dark Arts.

So why was it that Lockhart's book list was issued to _every _single student in the school, First to Seventh Year, with absolutely no consideration into the scope of knowledge each respective year is capable of retaining? Why is it that the only instruction in approaching his books was to read them, with no mention of _how_ for the younger years or _why_ for the seniors? Why too is it that Lockhart bases his lessons around such writing, essentially making it so that every year in Hogwarts is learning the same content?"

Murmurs had already begun around the pitch, and Harry knew his crowd only needed a gentle push to be persuaded onto his side.

"My dear witches and wizards, do not think that a great deed entitles anyone to such blind worship. Perhaps it is tolerably acceptable that First, Second and perhaps Third Years are learning the same material, but the same does not apply for the Fourth to Seventh Years. These are students who are anticipating national exams in their near futures, exams that dictate the outlook of their career and future. They cannot afford a clearly incompetent wizard masquerading as a teacher who treats them the same as any First Year."

Harry's speech was interrupted but loud cries of protest, particularly from several females.

"Clearly, these are merely jealous accusations of one highly admired wizard to another!"

"And are _your _observations backed by any substantial evidence, Mister Potter?" Skeeter furiously and smugly simpered.

Harry sighed. Just when he thought everything was going well and the crowd was beginning to believe him, he'd gone and called the man incompetent. Despite all his faults, it seemed the world was still as determined to continue believing Lockhart held a modicum of magical talent.

"Alright, alright," he said when Percy had shut them down. "Clearly, everyone here is still under the impression that Gilderoy Lockhart is powerful. Fine. I won't contest that, yet. Let's just stick to the facts, shall we? No matter how talented he is as a wizard, his teaching skills are deplorable. Assigning the same lot of books for all school years? That's only the start of it."

He paused, waiting for his audience's attention to be fixated on him before continuing. "The next part of my second statement will seem, to many of you, absurd, but it is something we mustn't forget. You see, apart from being a defeater of Dark creatures, Mister Lockhart was also a keen enthusiast on investing his wealth and primarily on his own image. It is for this reason that he earns about fifty per cent of the profits made on his books. It was only days ago that Gringotts confirmed such was the case.

"For those of you who don't understand what this means, let me explain. The first book on his Defence book list is _Break with a Banshee. _It costs five galleons to purchase, a little over twenty British pounds. The other six are all about the same price. Now five galleon book is not unaffordable. But a Defence book list worth thirty-five galleons, in other words one hundred and forty pounds, is a price no one can deny as expensive.

"I told you earlier that Lockhart had given every single Hogwarts student the same booklist of his own books and memoir. I said the reason he did so is because he is an incompetent wizard. You didn't believe me. And so I give you, ladies and gentlemen, perhaps the only other possibility. Gilderoy Lockhart is selling his own books in order to maintain his place on the bestseller's book list and to increase his wealth by five thousand two hundred and fifty galleons, assuming only three hundred students attend Hogwarts. Considering how Hogwarts is at the vanguard of British magical education, there will undoubtedly also be other institutes worldwide who will follow. How much profit is Professor Lockhart earning with each year's crop of new students, I wonder?"

Step Three, _complete_.

The general reaction was uproar, unmatched by anything Harry had heard earlier. The noise was so great he couldn't discern whether it was outrage at his statement or at Lockhart.

"SHUT UP!" Percy roared.

Harry grinned at the sight of the brusquely approaching Lockhart and Hermione. "And now is the time to move on to my third and final statement: Gilderoy Lockhart is a charlatan."

This time, the crowd didn't know how to react, torn between worshipping a beautiful and decorated man, or the boy who obstructed him. Pictures were naturally still taken as Gilderoy Lockhart happily waltzed towards them, oblivious of his impending doom.

"Hello Professor," Harry called out. "I suppose you've heard the news already?"

Lockhart grinned toothily as he stepped to the chopping board, the notable space beside Harry that left nothing to the private eye. "Well, my boy, I _am _the news, don't you say?" He nodded to his agape audience. "Well, hello to you all! I must say, it is quite touching to see you all here with me. I hope you haven't waited long?"

"Not at all, Professor," Harry answered smoothly. "We were in fact just talking about you."

Lockhart's chest puffed proudly, perhaps the last time he would ever do so. "All true things I hope?"

Harry smirked and shrugged, winking at the nearest camera as it flashed loudly.

"Why don't you help us decide that, Professor?"

He leaned in, ready to deliver the killing blow.

"I suppose being a master in Defence Against the Dark Arts would mean you can tell me the answer to this: What counters the Disarming spell?"

_-wizardry-_

The sacking of Gilderoy Lockhart was naturally an event all of Hogwarts rejoiced at.

"That was incredible, mate," Zabini and Malfoy both exclaimed, having witnessed the entire ordeal from one of the many windows of Hogwarts, as did many other students.

Harry winked. "It all comes down to the element of surprise, you see. Plotting takes time, and it often fails when said time gets taken away from the equation. Skeeter and Lockhart never even stood a chance."

Daphne snorted. "You were hardly this confident four days ago, Potter."

Harry grinned, feeling too ecstatic to be embarrassed. "But in four days, dear Daphne, I was given the time to plot."

Millicent, being a little slow, was still confused. "You could've locked Skeeter in _Azkaban,_" she exclaimed. "But you chose to let her get away with it?"

Harry sighed. "Millicent, Millicent. Say I send her to prison. The only grounds I have to convict her on would be for snooping in the Ministry of Magic. If she were to be arrested, it wouldn't solve any of my problems, as that'll only mean the things she wrote about were true. But if I could-"

"If you could get her to willingly admit she'd lied about it all, then no one would have any grounds to accuse you or Crouch of anything," Nott said contemplatively.

Harry could almost hear the cogs in Millicent's head turning.

"Of course, the same trick won't work twice," he sadly admitted. "Rita's a scheming one – the only reason I won today was because she'd never expected herself to be surprised. Next time, and there _will_ be a next time, I'll probably use the truth against her."

"And by that, you mean _blackmail_." Understanding dawned on Millicent's face. "I get it now – Skeeter could be useful if you got her on your side. So _that's_ why you made it seem like this one's the better deal."

"And here was I, thinking you were a bit of a slow one this time last year, Potter," Zabini sighed.

Harry smirked. "Be glad you're a friend and not an enemy, Blaise. Be very glad."

_-wizardry-_

Fred and George Weasley were next in their congratulations. "I'll admit we had our suspicions, Harry Potter," one admitted.

"But this proves it," the other continued.

"You really are unbeatable."

Harry smiled wanly. "Thanks, I guess. It wasn't that difficult, actually – surprise is what I'd advise. They just never see it coming."

The twins were evidently delighted. "Handing out tips to the rest of lowly folks too now, are you?"

Harry shrugged, not quite sure whether to take it as a joke or an insult to his ego. The twins helped him decide.

"I suppose we owe you an apology."

"There might've been a time when we looked down on you."

"You were just so small and innocent-looking-"

"-not to mention you were friends with ol' Ron-"

"-and then you managed to get the both of you into _Slytherin_-"

"-and you _liked _hanging out with the lot of them."

There came a pause as the pair realised where they were heading. "Look, the bottom line is that-"

"-we realise we made a mistake now."

The bag of galleons Harry had given them was now placed in front of him.

"Here's your money, Harry. Please take it back."

Harry stared at their faces. There were signs of guilt, traces of hope, remnants of regret, but above all there was sincerity. "Thank you," he finally said. "There aren't many people who'd do the same, you know.

"At the start, I really looked up to the two of you; you had charisma, humour, popularity, a carefree life… I wanted so badly to befriend the Weasley twins. Things changed too early, of course. Part of it was because of prejudice, most of it pride. There have been moments when I truly understood what it was like to be under the boot of your ridicule, so many times when I felt there was enough hatred for me to hardly mourn should the two of you die."

Uncomfortable, Fred and George both swallowed.

"I'm going to put it behind us, though. Because in the end, you thought enough of me to ask for a second chance. There aren't many people I'd put in that category, you know."

There then came a rather awkward moment of edgy friendship. A moment in which both parties had slight difficulties expressing civility in light of their pride. In the coming years, however, such awkwardness would long be forgotten. This was the start of a long-time partnership, something Harry didn't for a moment doubt would be something that would benefit them both, enormously.

As the eventful day drew to an end, what Harry also duly took note of was how Barty Crouch Snr hadn't bothered to neither write to him concerning his conference nor turn up.

_-wizardry-_

A week before Halloween, Harry was called to the Headmaster's Office, expecting yet another rebuke that would most like dictate to Harry the Correct Method of Being A Famous and Idolized Wizard. The presence of the Headmaster and all the Heads of Houses to testify such an event therefore didn't surprise him all too much.

"Harry," Dumbledore began with a surprisingly kind voice. Harry, not detecting any hint of disappointment, resignation or contempt, blinked. "Your guardian owlled me this morning to inform me that she would like to see you accompany her to Godric's Hollow in a weeks' time to commemorate your parents' death."

Harry blinked.

The entire process was approved by the majority of the Hogwarts staff who, despite being repeatedly warned by Harry of his aunt's blood prejudice, all approved of Cassiopeia Black.

"While typically she would _not _be my first choice for guardian, I do think you could do worse, Potter," McGonagall said, a smile seeming to dwell on her lips as she gazed at Harry's sulking expression.

"Quite right," Flitwick agreed. "No matter what she represents, she is still a greatly respected and powerful witch who knows what power like yours requires."

Harry frowned. It was like hearing no matter how evil Sirius Black was, he _was _still a Gryffindor. "Every time I meet her, she makes an effort to point out my inferiority in comparison to her holiness," he grumbled. "She's just as bad as Aunt Petunia."

"It'll do you good to hang around worthier relatives, Potter," Snape commented, ignoring his previous warnings.

"Honestly Professor. I thought you wouldn't want me associating with people like her." Harry couldn't help but smirk at Dumbledore's resigned expression.

"Perhaps, Harry," he answered, "but your great-aunt also respects your parents, and to a certain extent what their death represented. Taking you to Godric's Hollow is an action that trumps what your Muggle relatives have ever done for you."

Harry didn't know whether to be surprised or sceptical. For once, Dumbledore had _agreed _on the matter of the Dursleys being cruel. This was a step-up from last year, but Dumbledore's optimism for his great-aunt was too great, even for him. _Aunt Cass mightn't be evil, but she isn't good either. There's no way she's doing this out of respect for my parents, much less their sacrifice. She's probably only doing this because it's the proper thing._

Harry didn't say anything then but later, as Aunt Cassiopeia came to Portkey the two of them away to their destination, his relative's contempt couldn't be more obvious.

"Dumbledore." Her cold, stiff voice greeted the man perhaps only a few years her senior.

"Evening, dear Cassie. How long has it been, I wonder?" Dumbledore said cheerfully, keeping up with his usual, oblivious self.

"A few decades, I imagine," Cassiopeia drawled. "So long that one must ask _how_ it is possible unless you purposefully set out to avoid me."

"Or you me," Dumbledore mused.

The tension around the room only strengthened until Harry, unable to withstand it any longer, burst out, "Let's not wait for Halloween to be over before we leave, dear great-aunt."

She reluctantly drew herself out of the hatred glare and brought out a Portkey.

"By now you should know," she said, about a millisecond after the two had landed at the gate of the cemetery, "that eleven years from today, your parents were murdered."

Harry shivered. _Trust Aunt Cass not to bother softening the blow._ When Cassiopeia showed no inclination to move, rather fixated at the entrance of the cemetery, he coughed. "Should we, er, get going?"

His aunt turned to him sharply. "You are selfish, young man," she snapped. "Your parents were not the only witch and wizard buried here. For many, many years now, Godric's Hollow has been a place where Wizarding folk resided, including your ancestors. Unless you wish for their spirits to curse you, I advise you now to show some respect."

Harry reddened. "Sorry," he mumbled, bowing his head and granting his forefathers a minute of silence.

Moments later, as the two made their way inside the cemetery, Harry's back shivered. This was his first time ever entering a cemetery, much less an obviously magical one, and he was feeling nauseous, as if something bad was about to occur. Cassiopeia seemed to feel it too, for she grunted "Apprehension Charm", before withdrawing a small bottle from the inside of her cloak. She took a long sip before passing the bottle over to Harry. Harry, pausing to look at Cassiopeia's disgruntled face for a moment, knew not to take the chance to start another fight and bravely swallowed.

The tonic tasted slightly bitter and Harry resisted making a face. Thankfully, the nauseous feeling inside his stomach had evaporated, leaving him feeling only vaguely apprehensive. After handing the bottle back to Cassiopeia who placed it back in her cloak, the two trudged forward.

The graveyard was orderly with every tombstone near identical to its neighbours, each occupying a plot of land of similar size. There were far more than Harry had estimated.

To Harry's surprise there were names carved onto the tombstones which he recognised. _Abbott, Boot, wait a minute…_Dumbledore?

For indeed, the name _Kendra Dumbledore _stopped Harry dead on his tracks. A short way below her dates of birth and death, there were the words _and her daughter Ariana. _Accompanying the names was a quotation: _Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also._

Harry was himself unable to move. He counted the years between Kendra Dumbledore's birth and death – not many. Perhaps thirty-six or seven. For Ariana it was even less. _She can't have finished Hogwarts then. _He glanced to the tombstones on either side, wondering where his headmaster's father's tomb was; surely nearby.

"If you are trying to find Percival Dumbledore's tombstone," Aunt Cassiopeia's voice cut the air sharply, "then I advise you not to."

Harry swivelled round, forgetting his aunt was still with him. She stared at the gravestone expressionlessly.

"And why not?"

Cassiopeia sighed. "Though it occurred many years ago, Percival Dumbledore's arrest was well-publicised and known by most aging Wizarding households, I do believe."

"_What?" _

Cassiopeia glared, annoyed at the direction their conservation was heading. "Now is not the time to gossip. Let us continue."

Continue they did, but Harry was unable to forget what he had heard. _Dumbledore, the Great Dumbledore, his father had been arrested? _

Soon, they arrived in the P's, by now deep in the cemetery with tombstones surrounding them that seemed to stretch endlessly. The nearest tombstones caught his attention for a moment, looking extremely weathered. Far too weathered for the names and dates to be read easily. Out of curiosity, he bent down, rubbing a little at a crumbling, mossy stone. _Ig-something. Ignotus? Ignotus Peverell. What a peculiar name._

Beside him, his aunt gasped. Harry inwardly groaned. Knowing her, he'd probably done something unconventional, yet again.

"No…impossible…"

The shock evident in her voice made Harry swivel round curiously, in time to see her aunt pointing at the withered tombstone beside Ignotus Peverell's.

Her gaze was fixated on the symbol beneath the name, a triangle that seemed to encase a sliced circle.

"Could this be vandalism?"

Harry blinked, surprised his aunt was actually bothering for his opinion. He inspected the mark sceptically. "Perhaps not," he murmured, "I mean, the bloke's been dead for centuries. Who'd bother? Besides, it doesn't exactly seem recent to me. More like it's a symbol that's been there all along."

Cassiopeia gaped at both him and the tomb, seeming almost impressed by the answer. Then, quite unexpectedly, quite frighteningly, she burst into loud, hysterical laughter.

"Of course, of _course, _you clever boy_. _A symbol, a _symbol! _And one not even _remotely_ blatantly obvious it was. How inconceivably _stupid_."

"Erm, aunt? A-are you alright?"

His great-aunt smiled, nearly terrifying him in the process. "It seems as if we have been fooled, Harry. It was easier for us to simply invest our faith into what we believed – and never questioned – to be the greater good. But our desperation made us forget to doubt. We trusted in the wrong man, Harry. So much money, so much blood and sweat and tears…all for nothing! Had we bothered to question, to hesitate, then we would have seen much sooner what would happen in Nurmengard, that fateful night Albus Dumbledore finally found the courage to act." Cassiopeia smiled once more, her eyes glinting under the moonlight. "We trusted in the wrong man, Harry Potter," Cassiopeia croaked. "The wrong man. In the end, he was nothing more than a charlatan, just another Gilderoy Lockhart. The so-called symbol of Grindelwald – what is it but the Deathly Hallows? How many of us were duped, how many of us fooled into believing his greatness…"

"Aunt…"

She turned to him, eyes wild and blazing. "Listen to me, child. Power that is acquitted will always flicker and fall. But power one _achieves?_ That is what will prevail and triumph. How deluded were we in our noble, idealistic hopes for a grand future, forgetting to question his power, his connections. He was but an ordinary wizard who had in his hands an extraordinary object. Nothing more."

(Read Notes for explanation if confused)

Harry stared at his great-aunt, who seemed to be on another one of her mad, tangential rants. This, unlike the previous times, seemed not to be fuelled by rage but rather defeat. It terrified him. Should anything happen out here in the lonely cemetery, even with his wand he truly didn't know what to do.

_At the end of the day, I'm just a twelve-year-old orphan. Having a lightning scar that marks me to be the Boy-Who-Lived, being a leader in the Wizarding World, even owning two Wizengamot seats…do they really make me any better than the boy I was with the Dursleys?_

His musings were short, for amazingly, Cassiopeia drew herself back to her regal and collected stance, moving forward without giving the gravestone another glance.

"Come, child. Let us pay respects to your parents."

The rest of the night would be spent cleaning his parents' grave and commemorating their deaths, and visiting his old home in Godric's Hollow that had now become a shrine. Later, as his aunt led him to the statue of his parents and him in his infancy, Harry saw for the first time the faces of his parents.

_James Potter – you look so familiar, but that may just be because your face is similar to mine, only ten years older. Lily Potter – they tell me I have your eyes. How brave you were, to give up your life for your infant son, who had yet to prove the world his worth at the age of one. How foolish too, to place so much trust in a man who had taken so much from you and given so little in return, and to go so far as to defy a man who fought for your kind's cause. _

_You were two brave, brave souls who sacrificed your life for me…and indirectly to the future of the Wizarding World. Your son, Harry James Potter, today stands before the place where your bodies rest to commemorate your sacrifice. May the world never forget your names and what your deaths meant for them, eleven years ago on this day._

On another note, the two were so focused in each of their musings that neither one noticed, tucked away behind the graveyard, Severus Snape's half-emptied bottle of whiskey, just over a year old.

_-wizardry-_

It would be foolish to imagine they were the only ones who were in Godric's Hollow that day. As the two made their way to the local pub for some supper, they were not disappointed.

Within seconds of sitting down and perusing the menu, a woman – for though her hood was up, Harry gathered by her tiny feet that she was female – approached them.

"Hello, my dears," she croaked.

Aunt Cass and Harry both inspected her suspiciously. Her appearance suggested that there was no doubt she was not a witch, but her bluntness made it hard to discern whether she held friendly or malicious intent.

The woman inched forward a little with a strength that took both of them by surprise, so much that the two of them drew out their wands and pointed threateningly at her, in defence. The others in the pub gave them a bored look before turning away.

"Who are you?" Cassiopeia said sharply.

"And what are you doing here?" Harry added.

The old woman glanced between the two of them then, quite unexpectedly, burst into laughter, attracting a few looks. "My dear Cassie. I suppose you can _finally _leave us in peace now. At last, your one wish is fulfilled. The boy is the _spitting image _of you!"

As she drew back her hood, Harry stared at her, slightly bemused. She was infinitely old but her eyes gave away her unusual sharpness. Nothing about her exuded the slightest need for alarm. Instead, she seemed matronly, slightly batty in her smile and merely a good-natured lady who had, most likely, recognised them.

Cassiopeia certainly recognised the woman, for her back stiffened immediately when she saw her face. "Goodness," she murmured. "This is a surprise, Batty. I was told you were either long dead or mad."

Bathilda smiled, uncaring of the thousands of wrinkles she formed as she did so. "Close enough but not yet, dear. Come along, the two of you. You simply cannot leave without paying me a visit." At Harry's curious glance, she winked. "I'm Bathilda Bagshot by the way, Harry."

Five minutes later, they were making their way into the home of the greatest magical historians alive.

_-wizardry-_

The first thing Bathilda Bagshot said when they entered her home and she had hastily served them tea was, "How _is _dear old Albus these days, dear? Last I heard, they were recommending him the Ministership."

In return, Cassiopeia sneered. "The last count was two years ago. Not quite up to speed, are we Bathilda?"

Bagshot sighed. "You know I detest the _Prophet, _dear_. _Horrid writing, these days. Back in my time, the Rita Skeeters of this world were condemned to _Witch Weekly _columns, certainly not anywhere in a high-quality British magical newspaper!" She sighed. "And as for _The Quibbler, _who knows _what _poor Xenophilius has got himself into without his wife to sort his head out? It's poor journalism everywhere I'm afraid." At the sight of both Harry and Cassiopeia's slightly uncaring and bored expressions, she added, "I apologise. You _know _I must care. I'm an historian at heart, and I _am _Von Ranke's disciple."

Cassiopeia snorted at this but Harry was intrigued. "Von Ranke?"

Unsurprisingly, Bathilda beamed at such a question, much to Cassiopeia's displeasure. "The reason the most accomplished historians are usually muggle-born or half-blood, my dear, is because they are not arrogant enough to forget about their muggle counterparts, some whom are far more wiser. Dear Leopold Von Ranke is one of such. The muggles call him the founder of scientific history, the father of the objective writing of history, the man who sparked the beginning of historical empiricism -"

"The man was a hypocrite, Batty," Cassiopeia retorted. "All that preaching of historical objectivity and what does he do but write nationalistic, Eurocentric and conservative history, without even a _hint_ of the French Revolution? I can hardly disagree with what they say nowadays – that it is impossible to remove the historian from the history. History will _always _be biased, no matter how hard one deludes themself into thinking otherwise. And let's not even _mention _his theory of excluding all sources of evidence unless they were primary. My, on such grounds we would have ignored all oral sources and even have the nerve to completely deny events like the Goblin rebellions, whose history was based on word of mouth, altogether! Goblin rebellions not existing! That's hardly anything to aspire towards, Batty."

Bathilda pursed her lips, far from pleased. "I believe it was his _intent _that truly-"

"Intent, dear? You should know far better than most that _intent_ means nothing when placed next to the reality of _outcome_."

Completely mystified and astounded, Harry decided to cut in before relations between the two witches worsened any further. "Right. So about the _Daily Prophet. _What were you trying to say?"

Bathilda had yet to recover but she answered him anyway. "Poor journalism, Harry. Far too much judgement and personal insight. Every journalist is, in essence, an _historian _Harry. They should bear in mind that whatever writing they make will inevitably impact on somebody's life, on their decisions, their choices, Merlin even their regard to the weather! That Rita Skeeter is a con artist – she merely _pretends _to uphold an authoritative voice, when her only preoccupation is to instil crises and scandal – enough so that she and the _Daily Prophet _will continuously stay popular and well-read." With a look at his great-aunt she continued. "I'm not saying every journalist should follow dear Leo's approach in aiming for complete objectivity, for that would be far-fetched and entirely too boring, but what the public wishes to think is up to _their _discretion, not a journalist's manipulative schemes for achieving fame."

Harry nodded thoughtfully, agreeing wholeheartedly with Bathilda's words and vaguely wondering whether she had learnt from experience; perhaps she too had faced unwelcome speculation by the press at one stage in her life.

"One thing I can promise you, Ms Bagshot," he added. "It'll be a long time before Rita Skeeter ever writes anything for the _Daily Prophet._"

Cassiopeia nodded approvingly. "I must commend you, boy. That was decent action taken and spoken like a true future leader of Wizarding Britain."

For Cassiopeia to say those words, she might as well have been declaring her ward to be the next Messiah.

Harry recounted the entire incident to a bemused Bagshot, who cackled as he recalled the ultimatum Harry had issued Skeeter. "Wise actions, dear child. You are indeed your mother's child. I suppose _this _is what Cassie sees in you." Her eyes sparkled. "The only drawback I can see is that she will not be the last, only the most iconic, figurehead of the uglier side of the newspaper. Those that have not received proper education behind writing journalism, who simply cannot fathom the enormous task they have upon them, such people still unfortunately exist. Something _must _be done about them."

"Let us not look purely at the historiography of the _Prophet'_s journalism," Cassiopeia injected, perhaps in an attempt to turn the conversation away from Bagshot's familiar historical grounds. "_The Quibbler _may have beautiful writing but it will _still _fail to attract the attention it so desires. The same problem also applies to _Prophet_ these_ – _frankly, I've become tired of constantly seeing my ward sneezing or scratching his head on every cover."

"Ah, yes, then there's content, the one thing that is perhaps _worse _than the writing skills. I _do _realise you are famous, Harry my dear, but I've beginning to wonder if you are _all _the Wizarding World has to offer." Bathilda sipped her tea. _"__Prophet _calls itself a _Wizarding _newspaper, which I find rather insulting to the majority of the magical community that gets ignored. Goblin riots – by the sound of it,_ Prophet_ is under the delusion that Goblins have either disappeared for good or their attempts at social disorder have completely stopped. Creature protection and land rights, even actions of the Wizengamot and what they'll actually _do,_ the Wizarding public has a right and responsibility to know these things!"

"Quite right, Batty. Not enough politics." Cassiopeia fumed, perhaps finally able to talk about something close to heart. "The problem is that the _Prophet _is far too closely affiliated with the Ministry – it either doesn't dare to publish anything political, or there's enough money circulating around for the stories to stop. I say, the reason Cornelius Fudge has managed to fool around with the Minister of Magic mantle for so long is _because _there is not enough light shed on his political blunders. Just the other day, I was invited to a dinner party of his, where for the greater part of the night he mistook the French Minister for the _German _ambassador."

"_No."_

"_Yes. _The only thing that saved him was Molyneux's ability to also speak German, and for Barty's miraculous save…"

"What were you doing at the Minister of Magic's dinner party, dear aunt?" Harry couldn't help but pipe up suspiciously.

"Darling Barty _is _Britain's Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, boy. Of course, it should have been _you _accompanying him, being the official patron of his seat, but…" she grimaced. "No matter how sharp your tongue may be, you are still far too inexperienced for gatherings such as these."

Harry grinned. His dear aunt may have called him inexperienced but this was the first time she'd admitted he had something resembling wit, albeit through a backhanded compliment. "I think I might like it if you could take me to the next one, Aunt. I'd enjoy watching our Minister falter again. I might even mention it in passing next time I hold an interview."

Cassiopeia smirked.

Bathilda, meanwhile, suddenly smiled, as if a bright idea had just found its way into her head, though Harry suspected she had led the flow of the conversation with the hopes of approaching what she was about to say. He wasn't disappointed. "I say Harry, you are _quite _wealthy and _very _influential. When all this jazz about You-Know-Who is over, as it should have been _years _ago had Dumbledore showed less leniency, I propose for you start up your _own _newspaper."

Harry blinked. "Really?"

"Why yes, dear. We can call it something wonderful – _Godric's Call_ perhaps, that sounds rather snazzy doesn't it? – and write real, true news. None of that twisted puke _The Quibbler'_s tangled itself into these days, not any of that infestation called _Daily Prophet, _but something authentic, reliable. We'll persecute Rita Skeeter of course, and every journalist we employ will have strict methods of writing to follow. We could _revolutionise _Wizarding media you know…"

Harry was distinctly aware that Bathilda had moved from speaking in "you" to a rather implicating "we".

Cassiopeia coughed. "And I suppose the boy _naturally _has nothing else to do once he's finished with Hogwarts. Never mind the Wizengamot council which he _will _eventually run, or even just a somewhat high position in the Ministry. Oh _no. _A media empire will _not _be on his to-do list as well, my _dear _Bathilda."

For a moment, he understood why Bathilda Bagshot and Cassiopeia Black could possibly be friends – despite their differences, some things were disturbingly similar, including their need to meddle and dictate his life, each thinking they had his best interests at heart. It was rather endearing, once you got around the fact that it was _his _life they were dallying with.

"It's getting rather late, Aunt," he finally said, somewhat reluctant but entirely conscious of the fact that it _was _too late. "I don't suppose we go -"

"Nonsense," Bagshot waved off. "It's _far _too late to bother with leaving. Besides, this house is big enough for three. There are two spare bedrooms upstairs. The two of you can stay for breakfast tomorrow."

Harry, and Cassiopeia too by her lack of refusal, decided it was simpler to just comply. He had run out of energy for anything else.

All three soon retired for the night, each consumed with their own problems.

None with any idea of what had just transpired at Hogwarts.

_-wizardry-_

"Did you have a nice night, Harry?"

Harry, unable to sleep any longer after he'd awoken at dawn, instead took the time to observe his room, finding to his eternal surprise an ancient picture of Bagshot with a very, very young Dumbledore. His initial disbelief had quickly turned into curiosity.

"Miss Bagshot?" Harry hesitated. "Earlier, when I was at the cemetery, one of the tombstones there...the name..."

Bathilda smiled. "Ah. Which of the merry few caught your eye, Harry?"

Harry, quite confused by what Bathilda was implying, asked her to explain.

"Godric's Hollow has always been the death-place of many accomplished wizards, Harry. Why, Godric Gryffindor himself was one of them. For centuries, this village has been rumoured to be cursed for the famous and accomplished, robbing the fortunate of their luck and the healthy of their lustre...or, as popular belief in my case, their sanity. This shy corner of the Wizarding World has received far beyond its fair share of publicity this century. Particularly after the immediate deaths of your parents. The Godric's Hollow cemetery became quite the tourist attraction for years until someone graced its gates with an Apprehension Charm."

Her eyes twinkled merrily and for a moment, Harry wondered whether Dumbledore's usual sparkling gaze was one he had copied off his old neighbour.

"Of course, it doesn't help that many a wizard treat this absurd rumour as possible confirmation of their greatness should they die here. It is almost tradition now that the wizened come here to spend their last days."

"Including you, Miss Bagshot?"

Bathilda laughed heartily. "Why, except for that brief interlude of my life which I spent in Hogwarts, I have lived here for as long as my memory stretches. I am not one of the restless souls who wish to immortalise their image by joining the past giants through death." She leaned in, as if to indulge Harry with a secret. "Let me tell you something, boy. Those who strive to achieve such greatness are sadly mistaken. For in the same way only the glorious seem to ever fall, only the glorious ever die."

Harry stared, incredibly confused. "I don't quite understand, madam."

Bathilda sent him a piercing look. "Now I loved your parents with all my heart, dear Harry, but with the way the first war is written, you'd think they were the only ones who perished. The rest of us who survived the ordeal? Our names are hardly enscripted in gold plaques, are they? Unless of course, one cheats death...Perhaps it is for the better, for the rest of us who remained at the same, unchanging altitude seem to have lived on and we always shall." She sighed resignedly. "Now what was it you wanted to ask me, dear?"

Harry swallowed. "Earlier, in the graveyard, it was the name Dumbledore I saw that surprised me. That my parents had lived in the same suburb as he had once is something he had held back from telling me when I had been given the chance. When I asked him about it, he'd almost seemed…almost seemed _ashamed."_

Harry was in luck. Not only was Bathilda a highly-skilled historian with a natural curiosity for the truth, but she was also a very easily tempted gossip. Her eyes twinkled at the prospect of divulging secrets. "Ah, yes. Yes, yes, yes. Dear Harry, you have come to the _perfect _place to ask such a question. You see, it was just nearly a century ago when Kendra Dumbledore moved here with her three children, Ariana, Aberforth and Albus. Only weeks before, Kendra's husband and Albus's father, Percival Dumbledore, had been arrested for torturing Muggles in broad daylight on the Dumbledores' front yard…"

_-wizardry-_

It took countless photographs, carefully collected articles from the _Daily Prophet _and at least four private letters before Bathilda had finished recounting the entire Dumbledore scandal to a stunned Harry.

It helped that she was a historian with strong empirical ideals – every farfetched incident she had told was completely backed by some form of reliable and irrefutable evidence, and by the time she was finished, Harry was utterly confounded.

"But…Dumbledore…he's a genius!"

"He was ambitious, Harry," Bathilda corrected. "You truly believe it when they say he is the brightest wizard to have walked through Hogwarts, the most powerful wizard since Merlin? Wizarding history, my dear, is never short of genius. Dumbledore may be one of them but he is by no means the greatest. The ones who called him such were perhaps merely the same ones who had created the legend of the Boy-Who-Lived."

Harry pondered this for a moment. _Of course. When Ron Weasley first met me on the train, he had in his mind someone else, someone completely different to who the real Harry Potter was. How can't it be that the same had been done to Dumbledore? Apart from his Transfiguration papers and his defeat of Grindelwald, what little more has he done to validate such a statement? _

It was here that Harry realised something equally disturbing – _I too, I have also been unknowingly manipulating the Wizarding World. Just like they do with Dumbledore, they also hold me up on a pedestal as the Boy-Who-Lived. What have I done that was even remotely worth being worshipped for, other than survive two fatal curses and semi-destroy a Dark Lord, neither of which I even set out to do? _Perhaps this was what Aunt Cassiopeia had meant earlier – Power that was acquitted, perhaps through achieving a fateful, somewhat brainless task that just so happened to save a few lives, created power that was short-lived. People like Dumbledore, who'd won against Grindelwald, or even Lockhart, they were flames that would flicker and eventually cease. But what was it that Cassiopeia had also said – power that one _achieves? _That was what would last, because the difference between gaining and achieving, however subtle, still existed.

And so Harry realised something, a real something: _The course of humanity is continuous and unending. What is Voldemort, ultimately, but a splotch in Wizarding history, albeit a slightly large one? And who am I but simply a boy who defeated and evaded a dark wizard? I have done nothing except _gain_ power. If I truly desire to be remembered, then I will need to strive by my own terms to _achieve_ it._

Thinking back, he felt remarkably changed, so much older and wiser than the boy that, over a year ago, had stated that his only ambition in life was to live and be ordinary. Perhaps the Sorting Hat had sensed something of the future and knew secretly that his ambitions were far greater, only needing to be discovered. If only Hermione Granger could see him now – those once laughable dreams of hers to serve the Wizarding World still seemed just as ridiculous and empty in a person like her, but Harry whose path had already been set out for him before he could even speak, where could he turn to but forward?

Harry turned back to the ancient woman whose mind was surely one of the sharpest he had ever encountered.

"Great-aunt Cassiopeia," he suddenly remembered. "Knowing how much she despises Dumbledore, I would have expected _her_ to be the first to tell me. Instead…"

"Your great-aunt loathes gossip, Harry. Perhaps even more so than any individual who has ever had the honour of annoying her. Frankly, I am not surprised she withheld such a story from you."

Said great-aunt soon joined them, looking infinitely aged and far too exhausted. Harry couldn't help but think back to Cass Black the Second's words to him weeks ago.

"Come now, boy," she said heavily. "It is time to leave. Your hospitality was much appreciated, Bathilda."

Bagshot nodded. Cassiopeia quickly headed for the door, but Harry lingered momentarily, knowing full well he was leaving the residence of one of the greatest minds history had ever encountered and that such an occasion was scarce to come by.

"Madam…"

"Hm?"

In that moment, he could have asked anything, from the legend behind the strange symbol that adorned the grave of Ignotius Peverell to the legacy of Gellert Grindelwald. And yet instead, something the woman had said about him and his great-aunt preoccupied his thoughts.

"When you said, earlier, about my great-aunt…er…leaving in peace…"

She laughed. "Why Harry. She's finally found the one thing she's sought for all these years. Someone who has enough determination, devotion and potential to continue on her legacy. In all honesty, I am rather _stunned _that you did not know of this when she consented to being your guardian." Bagshot leaned in a little. "After all, she wouldn't take in just _anyone."_

_-wizardry-_

Aunt Cassiopeia didn't take him home. She made two more stops along the way – first was to take him to the Leaky Cauldron where its owner, an impossibly old man whom his great-aunt simply addressed as Tom, led them to a private parlour room behind the pub.

"Excellent politics last month, Mister Potter," the old man wheezed happily. "Glad to know you've confirmed our speculations."

"And what speculations would those be?"

Tom turned slightly, an intelligence in his eyes that didn't make Harry doubt for a moment that this was any simple man. It was no quiet fact that the Leaky Cauldron's owner had lasted for decades tending to the meeting point of the Wizarding world and the Muggle. Generations of wizardry had flown by him, from as far back as the time of Grindelwald. If anything, this was a wizard who knew his stuff.

"Speculations on whether or not it was time for a new era, of course."

Harry stumbled. "A new era?"

Tom winked. "There was Grindelwald, there's been Dumbledore, there came You-Know-Who…one surely has a right to guess what comes next."

Harry was speechless, caught between flattery at being compared to the likes of such great wizards and embarrassment when he realised Tom had thought he was ready to start his own battle.

Tom must have realised such was Harry's feelings, as he hastily reassured him. "Oh, no need to worry, Mister Potter. We do remember that you are, despite what you have achieved at an unthinkable age, still merely a boy. But one can't help thinking…" Tom smiled. "I suppose part of the package is because we're all idealists at heart. Being the Boy-Who-Lived, one can't help finding it romantic, you know. Us lowly citizens down here just want to preserve that image of yours, keep it untarnished from the likes of institutions. The worst thing that can happen to any half-brave soul would be for them to write their name down as a follower of someone else's cause, simply because all the other options were less favourable."

"You're saying that I should start my own…what was it you called…_institution?"_

The pub owner winked again. "No need to make it seem so scandalous, dear child. They've all got one, you know. Dumbledore and his little Order, which since the loss of his Wizengamot seat we've been speculating he'd be forced to revive again. You-Know-Who and his lot, the Death Eaters – your incident with him last year proved his spirit was still alive, and there's bound to be a couple of your friends whose family wouldn't hesitate to follow him again. Then there's Grindelwald – still alive, stripped of his dignity and power, but they never mention that the reason he's kept in his own prison is to avoid loyalists breaking him out and attempting another world revolution. And of course, the Ministry, with a legion of loyal followers under one arm and the _Daily Prophet _that ensures their loyalty under the other." Tom leaned in a little, smiling toothlessly. "Perhaps it's time to start wondering who's got _your _back, Mister Potter."

And Aunt Cassiopeia, in all her arrogance and distain, merely allowed the pub owner to speak and said nothing the entire prolonged walk to the parlour room.

_-wizardry-_

Harry could hardly be more surprised by the sight to greet them in the parlour.

There, lounging at the table, sat an oversized man with little hair and a proud stature. He smiled somewhat nervously as Harry and his great-aunt approached.

"Horace Slughorn," Cassiopeia introduced immediately. "You will respectfully address him as Professor in the future. Horace, I have brought you your student."

Horace drew out a shaking hand, which Harry shook after a moment's hesitation. He examined the man's fingers, fine and thin unlike the rest of him, then realised the elders were waiting for him to speak.

"Interesting to meet you, Professor Slughorn. Having not been informed of our meeting at any earlier moment, am I to guess you'll be…assisting my learning in Potions or History of Magic?"

It was overly formal, caught somewhere between arrogance and politeness, but what he had said shocked the two into brief speechlessness.

"Harry Potter," Horace enunciated seconds later, "no doubt you have heard it many times, but I must say, you are extraordinarily like your mother."

Harry blushed, pleased. "Thank you, sir."

"I am well aware that this meeting was to be kept a secret until we met, just as I know Cassiopeia Black would keep her word, but for you to guess so unthinkingly yet so accurately…"

Harry supposed the man deserved an explanation. "Out of all the subjects I study at Hogwarts, Potions, Herbology and History of Magic are the ones I performed the worst at. Potions and Herbology because no matter how brilliant I am with theory, I lack talent and attentive guidance when it comes to practical. History of Magic, simply because Professor Binns is teaching it."

At such a blunt statement, the professor guffawed. "But you knew I would not be teaching you Herbology?"

"Your fingers," Harry pointed. "They're too fine and lack the coarseness of someone who frequently digs his fingers into soil. Not to mention, of the three subjects I failed to come first at, Herbology is still relatively my best."

"Excellent logic, my dear boy." Horace beamed. "Though it is bewildering to think your Herbology is better than Potions, when you managed to place equal first last year for Potions."

He scoffed. "That was Snape's attempt at softening the blow when he tried to serve me some humility. I'm hardly extraordinary, sir. If I was, coming first wouldn't have been something he hesitated in discerning. Not to mention, I fail to see my potions skills compared to the likes of Draco Malfoy any accomplishment."

Once again, Horace was surprised. "Are you and Mister Malfoy not friends?"

"Being friends doesn't exactly veil me to his faults, Professor."

As Horace continued to applaud his wit with enthusiasm, his great-aunt took a seat a few metres away, content to watch the two converse.

"I will see you every weekend at seven-thirty in the morning, Mister Potter. You will arrive by Portkey to this very parlour and finish just in time for your curfew at Hogwarts."

"_Curfew?"_

"The focus of your lesson will be on Potions and History of Magic, of course, but your aunt also thought it wise to give you some…_diplomatic _training."

"And what exactly will those include?"

The professor laughed heartedly had his distrust.

"Oh, Harry Potter, you'll find out at our next lesson, I believe! Relax – nothing quite as scary as what you let on."

The conversation was cut short by Great-Aunt Cass, who briskly said, "I believe it is time for my nephew to return to Hogwarts. Horace, if you will?"

Horace nodded resignedly, perhaps understanding that Cassiopeia Black was not a woman to be trifled with. "Of course, of course. I shall see you next week, Harry." And with another beaming smile, he left the two in the parlour.

Harry frowned. "I thought _we _were the ones leaving?"

His great-aunt rolled her eyes. "I have already created you a Portkey that will take you straight to your Hogwarts dormitory, boy. You'll leave soon, of course, but first, let us talk about your tutor."

"If you were hoping I'd be unwilling to be tutored so you could berate me some more, then sorry to disappoint." Harry scowled. "To be tutored by someone like Professor Slughorn is something I'm rather looking forward to, especially the diplomatic aspects."

Cassiopeia gave him a look. "I can hardly see why it would please me to see you miserable about your circumstances, but before you leave, I find I must stress to you about how imperative it is that you take Horace's lessons seriously. There are some things in life which one can never learn at school, even if it is Hogwarts."

Harry raised an eyebrow dubiously. _Alright, I liked the bloke, but he isn't _that _impressive, is he? _

"What exactly does he plan to do with me for so many hours?"

"He plans to collect you."

"Collect me? What do you mean?"

Cassiopeia waved him off. "It does not matter what I mean. You will see soon enough. The important thing, however, is that you _let _him."

"I _let _him-!"

"Because you, too, will collect, and Slughorn will be your means of doing so."

Harry frowned, confused and slightly worried. Aunt Cassiopeia, however, had finished talking about Slughorn.

"You will learn from Horace – he played a substantial role in both the Dark Lord and your mother's early life, and he will for you as well. Now as for your actions in front of the Wizarding media, you must now follow them with not only a show of maturity and responsibility, but real action. Be the leader that you need to be, but implore Bartemius Crouch to act. If he continues his silence for another week, then it is time to replace him. You must also show true support of the Educational Decrees he emplaced and you backed by carrying them out in his stead – find a new Defence Teacher, revise the long overdue Hogwarts syllabus, examine the competence of its teachers and replace them if you must, take your own education seriously as well, of course. In my absence, you _will _top of your year."

Harry stared. "In your absence?"

Cassiopeia waved him off. "There is little time left to explain, child. Grab hold of your Portkey. I will see you again."

Harry complied, but something in her voice gave it away, something that told him his great-aunt had imparted her wisdom and entrusted another professor with the responsibility of honing his diplomatic skills, because she would soon be not enough.

There were seconds left before the Portkey would be activated. Harry stared at his great-aunt, perhaps his closest magical relative alive.

"I have known you for less than a year, Harry," she said quietly, "but I-"

What she had left to say would forever remain a mystery, caught in the quickness of the flinging Portkey, as her nephew quickly found himself landing on his bed, staring up at the shimmering green light of water reflected on his ceiling in his underground dormitory. He wondered briefly what it was his great-aunt had wanted to say, why it was that for perhaps the first time ever, she had affectionately addressed him as 'Harry'. Soon, however, these thoughts flew by, replaced by other, more important ones, such as her insistence for him to act. She was right, naturally – he needed to equip his words with deed.

Harry yawned and stretched. The day was still young and should he hurry, he could just make it to breakfast before all the food was cleared. He dragged a hand through his hair, sighed loudly before getting up and putting on his school robes.

_-wizardry-_

Notes:

Extra, irrelevant information, but Slughorn was initially nervous about his meeting with Harry, having known and taught the last Dark Lord at Hogwarts himself. He feared something similar, but that soon dissipated when Harry stepped out to seem more like his mother – smart-mouthed and clever.

This chapter is also a little philosophical to me. The message that power gained is short-lived and only power achieved will stay forever is something that Cassiopeia introduces, Lockhart embodies and Harry contemplates a second time. This time, he links the acquitting of power to Dumbledore and himself and the achievement of power to what he aspires to have. Ironically, he's right about Dumbledore, and not just in a somewhat metaphorical sense. Actually, Grindelwald had acquitted his Death Stick, and so too has Dumbledore, thus ironically he has also gained the curse of his position of power being temporary.

Cassiopeia discovers today the symbol of the Deathly Hallows; previously, she had treated it as the symbol of Grindelwald, but it is only now that she actually realises what it means – Grindelwald wasn't all-powerful; he just had a wand that was. Here, she realises that she had followed him blindly and out of bad faith. Thus she states power gained is temporary, whilst power achieved is essentially immortal.

Cassiopeia's fit into the timeline from Grindelwald to Riddle is exact – she's right in the middle, the generation of idealistic youths who were inspired by the revolutionary ideas of Grindelwald and later influenced and supported the uprising of the next wave, which was Riddle's generation, young radicals that supported blood purity. My take on this is that no leader or ideology can exist without the influence of others. Riddle's goal was to achieve blood purity, a legacy left by Grindelwald's desire to conquer over Muggles. Cassiopeia's earlier speech was full of implications of both Grindelwald and Riddle. They all arose from essentially the same institute. Think of the muggle equivalence as being folks like Camus, Sartre and Lacan all arising from the similar backgrounds with similar ideas emerging that strongly impacted and were reflected in Post-Modern literature.

Also, a little history from Ms Bagshot. For those of you unacquainted with Von Ranke, I apologise if you, like Harry remained confused. I wanted to add a little historiography in here, largely because I imagined one of the most celebrated magical historians to know substantially about writing history. History-wise, Rowling remained somewhat silent; teachers like Binns are able to babble on about history, when the current education system of countries like Australia is to have a more empirical approach to history, analysing sources, their reliability and such. It would be interesting to see how Bagshot would teach the lesson – would she assume Von Ranke's strict methodologies or perhaps the Post-Modern idea that there is no objective or universal truth, and thus one can only study history from different perspectives? I think the first too, though I wonder how would the more eager Ravenclaw students react should she replace Binns (HINT.)

Politics-wise, we also have movement. The blatant absence of Crouch stirs a little tension but Harry's resolving of their scandal serves to further his understanding and experience in dealing with both the political and public world of magic. Then there are the hints which both Bagshot and Tom plant in him – to begin a new era as a leader removed from the already established institutions. Here, I have a few choices. Harry can take over the Wizengamot and have it come head to head with the Ministry, he can start his own circle of devotees amid Hogwarts or he can use Slughorn's Slug Clubs to collect his own 'followers'. I wonder which my readers would prefer.

As for why Ron never seems to learn from his mistakes, let's not forget that even in the last book of the canon, he momentarily hesitated, albeit due to a number of unlucky factors (jealousy, Horcrux, bad living conditions etc.). I do plan on making him end up a one of Harry's greatest friends, but that will come slowly and much, much later.

Happy reading!

MaskWithATruth


	12. Chapter the fifth: second year part d

Disclaimer: Not mine. JKR's.

Chapter 5

_Hadn't that always been the story of his life? There had been no one to stop him from being cast into the Muggle world eleven years ago, no one to save him from the various Harry-huntings conducted by his cousin and his gangs except for his magic, no one to take command of his own life, his assets and seats. His parents were long dead, most of his acquaintances in the Wizarding world were ones who wouldn't hesitate to walk away at the hint of a better deal, and if they weren't the ones on fire, there were few others who'd bother entangling themselves into his life just to help extinguish the flames. Crouch was an obvious example of that. And as for Dumbledore, the supposed most powerful wizard of recent history, he hadn't bothered the first ten years, and it was unlikely that he'd bother now._

_There was no one there to save him. There was only himself. And as such, it was time to get his act together._

part d

The doors of the Great Hall slammed open as Harry Potter entered, unaware or perhaps simply too used to being the centre of attention of all of Hogwarts. This time, however, there lacked the usual awe and revere. There was fear as he trailed down the silent aisle towards his usual seat near Draco and Blaise, apprehension in the eyes of his closest friends and horror amongst the few Gryffindors he bothered to notice.

Something (beyond the usual) wasn't right.

"What did I miss?" he murmured to Daphne, whose eyes were fixated on her plate.

She shrugged, shifting away from him a little, not out of fear but irritation.

"Why are you – _Greengrass, _what the hell is the matter with you?"

"Dunno, Potter," Daphne muttered. "Why didn't you tell us for starters?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "What _is _there to tell? What you do expect me to say? What are _you_ even _on _about_, for starters?"_

At his incredulity, his circle of friends all stared at him.

"You…don't know what just happened in Hogwarts yesterday?" Draco said slowly.

Harry sighed angrily. "How the _hell _would I know what's been going on if I wasn't even _in _the castle for the whole bloody day and only just came back here as of fifteen bleeding minutes ago?" he raged. "If you're accusing me of being part of something that had happened yesterday, just know that the only thing I was part of was the commemoration of my parents' death!"

It was, unfortunately, the wrong time to burst into frustrated anger, for the entire Great Hall stared at him in confounded shock.

"Harry…"

"_What, _Daphne?"

Daphne bit her lip. In the end, it was Cass Black who answered him.

"The Chamber of Secrets was opened last night. By the Heir of Slytherin."

_-wizardry-_

Naturally, what followed for Harry was controversy.

Half of the student body, too frightened to do anything beyond glaring furiously at the Slytherin table and in his general vicinity, had established their hatred towards him through social ostracism, moving tables as soon as he sat himself down or simply pretending he didn't exist as they passed in a corridor. The loyalty of the other half of Hogwarts, however, only seemed to have strengthened following the opening of the Chamber of Secrets. After realising that Harry was oblivious to all that had conspired in Hogwarts on Halloween, and was instead preoccupied with commemorating his parents' death, the belief in his innocence had become directly linked to respect for Lily and James Potter, and to an even greater extent anti-Dark Lord.

_Bloody hell. Who knew Hogwarts was so bloody bigoted?_

For this reason, the distinction between Gryffindor and Slytherin house had momentarily blurred. Gone were the days when it was the lions who hated him and the snakes who fiercely protected him. The Slytherins were, if anything, weary of him. His circle of friends, once abominably strong and a fortified wall against all external enemies, had disintegrated. Zabini, who had on many occasions declared his neutrality quite publicly, remained Harry's friend, but the role of Daphne and Draco had changed. Perhaps it was the first time Daphne had been forced to acknowledge what truly surrounded the title of Boy Who Lived, something she had previously dismissed in favour of his celebrity status and unending wealth. Despite Harry vehemently protesting against being the Heir of Slytherin, the romantic part of her had probably already chosen to believe that Harry _was. _She was both fearful and impressed, something that annoyed Harry as it made their interactions a little difficult, but flattered him slightly to know that Daphne was now treating him as not just a leader but also a, well, bloke.

Then there was Draco. As if their friendship hadn't been difficult _enough. _If anything, Draco was even _louder _in his denial of Harry as the Heir of Slytherin than Harry himself. Surprisingly, Harry found he could relate. Draco, after all, had two choices. He could either accept Harry as the Heir, swallow the Malfoy pride and begin worshipping at his feet, or he could simply refuse to believe anything, not only to salvage his pride but to reinforce a sense of personal denial that would allow him to cling to his principles of pureblood (and perhaps Malfoy) superiority. In other words, if change didn't mean Draco Malfoy would stay at the top of his game, then no, he didn't like it. Such meant that he was more than willing to deviate from Harry's group (it almost looked like he'd only been waiting for the moment), and Pansy, Crabbe and Goyle were only too happy to join him.

Then there was the other side of the coin, the one that didn't go unnoticed. Gryffindor house had now become what Slytherin had been in Harry's first year – half protective, half weary. Naturally, there were those who refused to think good of any Slytherin, but under the influence of the Weasley twins, sentiment had also changed for the better.

"We know it wasn't you, mate," they informed him solemnly.

"This is the Boy-Who-Lived we're talking about."

"Getting into Slytherin then stealing the Sword of Gryffindor at your Sorting-"

"-manning an allegiance with the goblins to gain emancipation-"

"-acing an impossible Quidditch try-out when half the school was against you-"

"-singlehandedly destroying the career of Hogwarts' two most hated people in a matter of _minutes-"_

"-and they'd _think_ you'd have more style when it comes to these things!"

Harry grinned, thankful for the twins' humour. "I don't suppose either of you gentlemen would be happy to help spread the word and set the record straight?"

"You didn't even have to ask."

If only the same carefree grace could be attributed to the likes of Hermione. Harry saw lesser and lesser of her presence in the library. She instead occupied her time with Neville and Ron, a trio Harry and the rest of Slytherin had learnt to accept with tolerance. Her absence was an unprecedented loss, for Harry had unexpectedly grown accustomed to her as an almost…well, _friend. _

Not that he would go around telling the Slytherins that. He was treading on thin enough ice as it was.

One of the few people not to change their treatment of him was Luna, who spent half her meals at the Slytherin table oblivious to the tension.

"Everyone here seems to stare at you a great deal," she said to him offhandedly during one dinner.

Harry snorted. "When _don't _they?"

"Do you think it's the Nargles?" she muttered to him suspiciously, "they like to do that to people sometimes."

Harry shrugged. "If only it was, Luna my friend. If only it was."

As for the teachers, none had altered their treatment of him, expect perhaps for Snape, who had given him a delayed talk about the disposal of Gilderoy Lockhart.

"I _do _hope you won't be making a hobby out of disposing Hogwarts of its Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers, Mister Potter," he had remarked after a Potions lesson.

"Only the incapable ones, sir," was Harry's reply.

The Potions Master snorted at this. "While the current alternative _is_ what I would call the lesser of two evils, I'm beginning to wonder whether Hogwarts will _ever _find a worthy professor at the rate you're going." Snape gave him a look. "I am not alone in my thoughts, Potter."

Harry paused. Snape's derisive tone had suddenly turned serious. His mind raced to decipher what his Head of House could possibly mean. _A warning? _

Snape had quelled whatever approval he held towards Harry's actions, choosing instead to lace his words with wariness and care. Having remained the leader of Slytherin house despite the lack of personal status he'd need to elevate himself above the immensity of wealth and affluence his students, Snape was no stranger to the intrigues of politics. It was without saying that whatever warning he was to give, Harry would take in stride.

"Though I have to ask," he mused, "why only now you choose to mention it? Lockhart left us weeks before Halloween."

"Because it is only now that you will begin to experience the backlash of your actions." Snape levelled him with a stern gaze. "Despite your success in exposing his incompetence, the as of yet incontestable fact is that Lockhart has saved many lives from the clutches of monsters and beasts, something that cannot be as easily said of his replacements."

Harry snorted. _Of course. Flitwick is a two-foot dwarf and you're, well, Severus Snape. Enough said when placed next to the face that is Gilderoy Lockhart._

"There is evil running loose in Hogwarts at the moment, Potter," Snape continued quietly. "Coincidentally weeks after the departure of Lockhart. How do you think that will reflect on your actions? There is no question that his most devout supporters will take this chance to stir dissent over your actions and judgements, doubt over your leadership. The fact remains that the fool has conquered monsters, and Hogwarts has stupidly expelled him at the face of its own terror."

Harry groaned softly as realisation dawned on him. _Dammit. Why does everything I do just _have_ to have consequences I need to deal with?_

"What should I do then?"

Snape's beetle black eyes were unreadable. "The next move is up to you, Mister Potter. Currently, Halloween remains a secret to the Wizarding public, but it is only a matter of time before a restless student leaks the incident to the media, eagerly waiting for the moment to pounce and spin that speck of dirt on you into a swamp. By then, you will need to be prepared – do _not _fall into your own trap."

Harry nodded in understanding. He had, after all, destroyed the reputation of two well-established Wizarding citizens by utilising the element of surprise. It would only be the greatest irony if the media threw his tricks back at him.

"Whatever you do, first stabilise the teaching situation in Hogwarts. Do something about those Educational Decrees if you must. Wait any longer and the scandal will be out. By then, any action you take will only seem to be in reaction to the media's eventual backlash and their integrity _will_ lost."

Snape paused, taking a moment to bid the hesitant students of his next class entrance into his classroom.

"And for Merlin's sake," he muttered, "make use of Slughorn. Your great-aunt didn't exactly choose him based on his affordability, Potter."

Harry blinked.

_-wizardry-_

And Harry listened.

His first lesson with Horace Slughorn was unexpectedly pleasant.

His Portkey had sent him to the parlour room of The Leaky Cauldron at seven-thirty sharp and the sight that greeted him this second visit was vastly different to the first.

Slughorn had completely transformed the slightly decrepit room into an elegant meeting space, accompanied by a rather magnificent chandelier of moderate size and photo frames adorning the wall, all featuring Horace with one student or another. Harry gasped as one caught his sight.

"Ah yes, Ms Jones. _Gwenog Jones." _Professor Slughorn's proud voice echoed behind him, startling Harry a little. "I see you follow Quidditch, rather like your father."

"Did you know him, sir? Or was it only my mother?"

Slughorn dismissed James Potter with a wave. "Your father always had potential, but he was unfortunately too…arrogant. I invited him to one of my small gatherings, informal dinner parties if you will, back in his fourth year, but most disappointingly he turned down the offer, seeming to find the idea of connections a dirty word. Perhaps he thought himself above all that." Slughorn smiled sadly. "Ah, but your _mother. She _was the one who truly understood the value of knowing the right people. Others like to explain the difference between them by their blood status. Your father, a pureblood, never had to work for anything, while your mother ached to gain the respect of those around her constantly." The professor winked. "Personally, I find that a load of rubbish. The truth is simply that your mother was quite, _quite _brilliant Harry."

Harry nodded, forcing himself to swallow the rising disappointment. He'd known that his father hadn't been the best student at Hogwarts, but still he had hoped. Tormenting students, befriending werewolves and outcasts…What _was _behind the public face of James Potter, the hero?

"Now, before we start, I have just one other thing to show you…"

Slughorn walked a few steps across the room to another photo frame. "Now, see…"

Harry's eyes widened. "Is that-?"

"Yes, dear child. That is your mother."

Harry stared, eyes transfixed. Merlin, she was beautiful, only a few years older than him in the frame but with an elegance and intellect in her eyes (the same shade as his) that betrayed her true maturity. She had exquisite features – a teasing smile, finely shaped nose, delicate face framed with red hair. Her green eyes glimmered as she stepped away from the much younger Horace Slughorn and forward, towards Harry.

And then she _winked_.

"No way," Harry cursed.

That wink – _his _wink – he had inadvertently stolen it from his mother?

Slughorn laughed merrily at Harry's reaction. "Ah yes, the impossible to forget Lily Evans Wink. You'll be pleased to hear that a photographer of _The Daily Prophet _captured the wink _you_ made moments before Lockhart's fall, with perfect precision. I have the copy of _Prophet _here with me if you would like to see it. It was so impressive they're even incorporating it in their annual calendar!"

Harry merely shook his head, for once lost for words.

_-wizardry-_

Professor Slughorn was a fantastic Potions tutor.

He lacked the natural talent the likes of Snape boundlessly had, but for that he made up in experience cultivated through time. The first three hours were spent assessing Harry on his potions skills, both practical and theoretical. By the end of the three hours, one thing had become abominably clear – Harry had nearly _no _talent when it came down to potion-making.

"Which is expected, of course," Horace reassured him over the morning tea Tom had kindly brought in. "Most people aren't spectacular at Potions and of them there are still those who choose to become Potions Masters, myself being an example. Severus Snape serves the latter case of gifted potion makers, becoming a Potions Master in his early twenties. It was but ten years later that I could say the same for myself, but I still reached my objective in the end. Nothing is impossible to accomplish, Harry," he said wisely. "Some just take longer than others."

Harry nodded resignedly.

It was moments like this that Harry could see why his great-aunt chose Horace Slughorn above all other possible tutors. He was honest in his judgement, but delivered his advice in a calm corrective tone. It was a refreshing change from the nerve-wracking lessons Snape conducted; learning all of a sudden became so much easier and more efficient.

"Of course, Potions _isn't _the most important subject there is. Many, particularly Slytherins, perceive it as such, as potion-brewing requires a certain amount of finesse, and of course money. To be skilled in Potions is a sign of wealth, not unlike the Muggles and their musical instruments. However, it is not to be mistaken as the only subject worth excelling at. Defence Against the Dark Arts seems to be quite lacking at Hogwarts these days. I have yet to meet anyone measuring up to par with the students I'd taught back in my prime years…"

The same couldn't be said hours later, after the discovery of Harry's penchant for non-verbal spell-casting. His tutor was thrilled beyond words.

"How in Merlin's name do you manage it, my boy?"

Harry grimaced, thinking to the various times Dudley Dursley and his crew had pushed his survival instincts to the limit. "To tell you the truth, Professor, at first I didn't even know you were _supposed _to say the incantation out loud. It just became the norm for me, I suppose."

Harry had a feeling Professor Slughorn didn't believe him.

By late afternoon, Slughorn had completed an assessment of nearly everything Harry was taught at school, only excepting Herbology and Quidditch. He was pleased with everything, proclaiming Harry as being _a child whose mother would be proud of._

"Of course, your mother was a natural in Charms and Potions," he remarked jovially. "You, on the other hand, shine in spell-casting, particularly Defence Against the Dark Arts."

Harry snorted. _I suppose some _would _count Dudley as something of the Dark Arts variety – evil and ugly. _

"Perhaps your strengths were from your father," his tutor mused.

Slughorn, Harry soon realised, had a penchant for thinking that the attributes of the parents were wholly handed down to the children.

His magical history was understandably patchy; for most of his First Year, Harry had spent History of Magic classes as free time, doing research into the Wizengamot and emancipation regulations. Horace was impressed to find him well-researched in those areas, but for others, namely the goblin wars Binns was particularly fond of, Harry had only studied them in terms of their affiliation with the Gringotts institution and knew enough to just scrape by in exams.

"Of course, to come first would be a given in these circumstances, what with three-quarters of the class treating the lesson like nap time…but in terms of how I'm faring on a national or even an international level, I definitely wouldn't count myself in the top half."

Slughorn was surprised. "Have the teaching standards at Hogwarts really slipped that far?"

Harry shrugged. _"I _don't know, but last I participated in the Wizengamot, the general myth was that the Triwizard Tournament has been suspended for years in the hopes of avoiding British humiliation."

At these slightly exaggerated words, his tutor paled in horror.

"Well, we can't have that going on, can we?" he said angrily. "You, Harry, will be the tide-changer this time."

And with renewed fervour, Horace poured forth all that he knew about the Goblin conflicts of the fifteenth century, and Harry listened intently, all the while holding a slight smile on his face.

_-wizardry-_

By the time Tom had rolled in with their afternoon tea, the bulk of their first lesson had thankfully been over and Harry assumed the remainder of their time would be spent lounging around Diagon Alley's various eateries as Horace began his 'collecting' and offered his advice.

He was right. His tutor _did _offer him advice into the dealings with Hogwarts, Wizengamot and the public following the Halloween incident.

"Obviously, Hogwarts can't let this slide any further than it already has," he said pensively. "I agree with Severus' suggestion – take charge immediately, before this situation is made public. As for the Heir of Slytherin…"

He paused.

"Professor?" Harry prompted, suddenly curious. It was no small secret that the identity of Slytherin's heir had confounded everyone. "Whatever you know surely can't hurt."

Horace swallowed, face suddenly ashen. "Harry," he said quietly, "you are not the only student I have ever taught privately. Many years ago, when I was the potions master and Head of Slytherin at Hogwarts, there was one other…"

Harry's eyes narrowed. There could only be one explanation for Slughorn's reluctance to confess. "It was the Dark Lord, wasn't it?"

"How did-?" Horace sighed. "Alas, I forget who I'm talking to. Yes, it _was _the Dark Lord, but fifty years ago he was known by another name. Those beyond his inner circle knew him only as Tom Marvelo Riddle, an orphaned half-blood who knew of magic only days before entering Hogwarts but adapted to this world like fish to sea and found his fate in Slytherin, with a band of friends who made him their leader."

Harry inhaled sharply, turning quickly to stare at him. _What are you getting at here, Horace Slughorn?_

Slughorn chuckled. "Yes, the two of you _do_ seem very alike, don't you? I'll admit, I was initially wary about teaching you, considering the similar circumstances you shared with by last pupil…your great-aunt convinced me eventually, of course."

"Wait," Harry interrupted impatiently, "we're getting off track. You think the_ Dark Lord _is the Heir of Slytherin?"

Horace seemed slightly affronted at having the conversation diverted, but quelled it momentarily. "Not think, Harry. The teachers of Hogwarts didn't dare _think _these thoughts the years after the boy had left Hogwarts. But in the deepest recesses of our minds, we all _knew. _We were learned people, we _recognised _evil when we saw it in the face, whether it took ten years or ten seconds. But fifty years ago, we tucked these feelings away, simply because in the early days he was still just a boy, a curious boy with a hefty amount of potential, and we were people who delighted in teaching."

Harry stared, attempting to decipher through Professor Slughorn's onslaught of confessions. "You're saying fifty years ago," he said slowly, "the Chamber of Secrets had also been opened by the Heir of Slytherin, this Tom figure who then got away scot-free and later became the darkest wizard of recent Wizarding history?"

"Oh, it was far more than just that," Slughorn said darkly. "It would have been enough to simply open the Chamber of Secrets, but what followed was a string of attacks ending with the death of one girl, each accompanied by a message that promised darkness, blood and death. Hogwarts was only a _breath _away from closing down."

"And what stopped it?"

"The conviction of an innocent." Professor Slughorn sighed deeply. "Rubeus Hagrid, the current Hogwarts gamekeeper, to be exact. It didn't help that the lad was half-giant and teetering at the bottom of every class except for Care of Magical Creatures. In contrast You-Know-Who was Head Boy, studious and courteous, not to mention quite the handsome lad back in the day."

"The _day_ must've been long, _long _ago then, sir."

The professor chuckled.

"The Wizarding world knows by now that the Dark Lord isn't completely dead," Harry drawled, leaning back. "About two hundred pairs of eyes that watched him rise from the body of Quirinus Quirrell in Gringotts just over one year ago can testify to that. He could very easily be at Hogwarts then."

"Ah, but only _you _know that. See, it was the Ministry that convicted the supposed Heir of Slytherin last time and Hagrid only barely escaped Azkaban with the help of Dumbledore's mercy. This time round, the only one they can possibly blame without staining their reputation is Hagrid again. Certainly, no Ministry official will _ever _gain Fudge's permission to admit they had wronged and actively search for the true Heir, You-Know-Who."

"And because we can't let the darkest wizard of recent history to run free around a castle full of children," Harry muttered bitterly, "I suppose _I'll _have to do something about it?"

"But of course, Harry." Horace smiled at Harry's astuteness. "This is where finding the right Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher comes in. It is _crucial _to find the right teacher, as soon as possible, someone with a history of dealing with the Dark Arts."

"An Auror?"

"Perhaps."

"And one with little affiliation with the Ministry."

Horace regarded him proudly. "You're a _very_ fast learner, Harry Potter."

_-wizardry-_

What Harry didn't except as the sky slowly darkened was for the two of them to make their way back to a meeting room now with soft music, a table completely filled with foods and Tom happily awaiting them.

"Excellent," Professor Slughorn had exclaimed. "Thank you, Tom."

The bartender bowed modestly. "Have a happy evening, sirs," he said before exiting.

Harry was confused. "What's going on, Professor?"

His tutor grinned. "Very shortly, Harry, our guests will arrive and you shall see what I mean by all of this."

"_Guests?" _This_ is what Aunt Cassiopeia meant when by 'collecting'?_

At his horror, Slughorn laughed. "Oh cheer up, you solemn boy. Where's that famed wit of yours?"

"Currently on hiatus as my brain sinks into shock," he snarkily replied.

Horace laughed again. "No, don't worry, Harry. Tonight will be a night of introductions. At Hogwarts you see, I formed a little something called the Slug Club, where the best, handpicked students would gather occasionally to form…friendships. Connections, if you will, with people higher up in the ladder, just to give them a push in the right direction, and of course, the ones coming tonight have all succeeded." He surveyed his watch. "Ah, yes, I've told them all to Apparate straight here at seven sharp – no need for formalities – and it seems we have three more minutes left of six o'clock. What was I saying before?"

"The Slug Club," Harry said sharply. "Introducing them to various future benefactors. I suppose my mum was one of these elite few?"

Slughorn beamed. "Exactly, my boy. _Exactly. _Now I know what you're thinking – surely this isn't fair. Abusing your connections with the famous just to skip the queue, jump a few floors, shorten the wait and lesson the workload when there's bound to be another mind out there, just as brilliant as yours but never amounting to anything simply because they don't know the right names. And where's the justice in that? But if _someone _doesn't do it, someone _else _will, someone with lesser talent or skill, someone who deserves to be in his position even less than any of my students. Wouldn't we both much rather it was someone brilliant who got the position through less than fair means instead of someone talentless?"

Harry stared, suddenly seeing exactly what it was about Slughorn that made Aunt Cassiopeia choose him. How long ago had it been since his great-aunt had stood before him and madly urged him to take hold of his power and use it, to take charge of his privilege and make something out of it, something along the progression of Wizarding society? And he, he had brutally rejected the idea, saying instead that he was too young, too inexperienced.

_And yet who is filling my place? Can I say with certainly that my replacement is any better of a leader than I am?_

Not only so, but Slughorn presented a point – brilliance _did _deserve recognition. It _did _deserve to be treated different to the average wizard. And Harry? He was far from average.

His face must have shown his thoughts, for Professor Slughorn smiled again, pleased. "Your great-aunt has more or less given me free reign over your lessons, Harry, but she did warn me to keep the Slug Club meetings down to monthly events. Your duties as the patron of two Wizengamot seats, however, will entail you to a couple, more formal events every weekend, which I will accompany you to-"

"_What?"_

This part of Professor Slughorn's tutoring was something Cassiopeia Black the First had _definitely _not told him.

_-wizardry-_

By the time most of the guests had poured in, Slughorn had waved everyone round to the dinner table, gesturing for a seat as he motioned for Harry to stand.

"Members of the Slub Club," he said loudly, "I'd like to introduce you to our newest member, Mister Harry Potter."

There followed light, scattered applause. Horace nudged him to say something.

"That – Thank you for coming tonight." With a glance at the many curious, waiting faces around him, Harry swallowed and continued. "To be honest, Professor Slughorn here only made the exact details of tonight's dinner clear about ten minutes ago, something I'm _sure _he won't repeat next time." A pointed look at the smiling professor earned a few laughs. "When my great-aunt Cassiopeia Black approached him weeks ago about tutoring me, I had no idea what she had signed myself up for." Another laugh. "Here's to hoping she knew what she was doing. I wish everyone a happy evening and to all of us, luck for the future."

Another applaud. Dinner had begun on that note.

As the minutes rolled by, Harry had an overwhelming sense that he was the least accomplished person in the room. Every person in the room was a somebody with brilliant achievements dotting their career. And Harry, well he had his scar, his seats in the Wizengamot, quite a lot of money…and his mouth. But enough to impress these people? Aunt Cassiopeia had asked him to take advantage of his tutor's connections to form his own. Well, Harry was fine with the being collected bit, but how was he supposed to collect them back when he had nothing to offer?

"You follow Quidditch, don't you Harry? This here is someone you should recognise."

Sitting on the other side of the proudly beaming Slughorn was, naturally, Gwenog Jones.

Harry grinned. "Course I do. Gwenog, beater and captain of the Holyhead Harpies, not to mention one of Professor Slughorn's many favourites."

Gwenog laughed throatily, looking every bit the fearless witch Harry had imagined her as. "And what do you play, Harry?"

"Seeker for Slytherin," he answered, leaning over to shake her hand. "It's quite the honour to meet you."

And it was. Gwenog Jones, whose figure hadn't aged a day from the photo of her Hogwarts days, was the captain of the Holyhead Harpies to Harry's seeker of the Slytherin team. Harry wasn't sure just how he could compare.

To her credit, Gwenog tried to alleviate his frustration. "I heard you're quite the flyer yourself. Perhaps we could fly together sometime, hey? I can give you some pointers and you can give me the Boy-Who-Lived's first autograph." She winked.

Everyone laughed good-naturedly but Harry couldn't help feeling the sting of being treated like a kid. If there was one thing worse than prejudice, it was to be patronised, even unknowingly.

Perhaps the best success story came from Dirk Cresswell, who gave Harry an indecipherable look as he went on to introduce himself. "I'm currently the Deputy Head of the Goblin Liaison Office, essentially managing goblin and Wizarding relations."

Harry nodded, conscious of the approving looks around him. "How _are _goblin relations these days? No offence, but Binns' teachings of the goblin wars aren't exactly the most stimulating of lessons…"

The entire table laughed, no doubt recounting their Hogwarts days. Cresswell himself seemed to warm up to Harry a little. "I agree with you there Potter, but see, I had a talent. I didn't know it until I was eleven when I first visited Gringotts of course, but I was naturally fluent in Gobbledegook. That made History of Magic a lot more bearable." He grinned nostalgically. "It was Professor Slughorn who urged me to pursue my talents, and look where I am today."

"Cresswell," an older wizard beside him exclaimed, "you're a Muggleborn!"

Cresswell froze.

"Only Muggleborns could possibly learn of Gringotts as late as eleven," he continued smugly. "Though I have to ask, where exactly did you inherit your talent for Gobbledegook if your heritage is Muggle?"

The table hushed a little, watching the two curiously. When neither Cresswell nor anyone else came to his defence, Harry's fist clenched.

"You know what I find real interesting?" he said calmly but loudly. "The idea that talent is inherited through blood, which if you think about it is kind of ludicrous. I mean, _magic _isn't hereditary. A Muggleborn witch is just as - if not more - powerful than a pureblood wizard, and their half-blood son doesn't exactly have half the magic, as the title 'half-blood' suggests. So if magic isn't hereditary, I _dare _someone to name magical talent as being anything different."

"Seers, Mister Potter?"

_Crap._

"You're right there, Barnabus," Slughorn added his two cents, "Professor Trelawney herself is the descendent of the great seer, Cassandra Trelawney."

"So you see, magical talents _aren't _something conjured out of the blue. There has to be a _history _of such abilities that run in the family, and I'm afraid, Cresswell, that your case is either a false alarm or you present us with an anomaly."

Harry wasn't an idiot. He knew exactly what this Barnabus character was implying, and he seriously didn't like it. _Call it my hero complex, or maybe just the right thing to do, but just for that Barnabus, I think I'll take you up on your challenge._

"Two things I'd like to point out," Harry interjected. "First, if a gift skips five or six generations, then it might as well be random. You're basically saying that once every hundred and fifty years or so, someone in the family has something going for them, and therefore whatever it is must be hereditary. I'm saying that sounds more than just a little far-fetched. Second, the gift of seers would only be hereditary if Sybill Trelawney actually _inherited_ her ancestor's gift. What she has instead is a washed out version of the Inner Eye, only enough to qualify as a teacher and not as an actual seer. So on those two fronts, no being a seer isn't an inherited talent."

_Bullshit. _The things one had to say just to win an argument. His spectators most likely thought the same but this probably only caused them to be even more impressed.

"Rather interesting argument, Harry," Dahlia Fleur-Peri, who Slughorn had introduced as a well-established opera singer, beamed.

Barnabus, as Slughorn called him, still hadn't given up. "Alright, so you say seers don't count. To your credit, I suppose that also eliminates other talents, such as Metamorphagi or Legilimency."

_What and what? _Having no idea what either of those Barnabus was referring to, Harry replied, "naturally."

Barnabus smirked back at him. "Explain then, Potter, why families of the same tree practice the same…magic."

There came a moment of silence as what Barnabus was attempting to imply sunk in to the listeners.

Oblivious, he continued, "I am _sure _you know what I refer to. There are families who take up the Dark Arts and family who-"

"And would you be willing to name any names, sir?" Harry said sweetly.

It was a risk he was willing to take. Everyone knew just which families the man was referring to – the Malfoys and Blacks, two families whose names were synonymous with the Dark Arts. But unfortunately for Barnabus, both families were still very much alive and still prominent, and to accuse anyone of practising the Dark Arts was a rather serious accusation. It would come down to what Barnabus valued more – winning the argument at hand or saving himself from the disgrace of challenging one of the ancient houses and undoubtedly losing.

Wisely, he stayed silent.

Harry's smile widened. "I thought so too. Of course, we all know who you would name if you could. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, family to some of the worst Death Eaters the Dark Lord ever had. But let's not confuse notions of blood purity for Dark Arts practices. Our house's motto is _toujours pur _– always pure, not always dark. And even if the two _were _used interchangeably, here's something else for you – in every generation, there have been members of the family being disowned. One of them married a Weasley, and their descendants are everything but Dark. So in terms of families having certain magical attributes, such clearly _isn't _a universal phenomenon that occurs in all households."

Harry smiled. "Then there's also the fact that the current head of the House of Black _is_, you know, me."

And so Harry won another round. He reached for his glass and sipped some of the pumpkin juice Slughorn had given him in an attempt to cover up his satisfied grin.

Then Barnabus smirked. "Not so fast, Mister Potter. I _can _think of one family where the same magical gift is definitely passed on."

Harry tensed, knowing that sooner or later, someone would spot the loophole in his argument._ Well, it was fun while it lasted._

"The Slytherins," the older wizard proudly declared. "Every single descendent, no matter how distant the branch, speaks Parseltongue. Explain _that."_

Harry exhaled a little. At this, his spectators gaped. "Oh, _that," _he said.

"Yes, that," Barnabus said, affronted at Harry's relaxed reaction. "Why don't you talk yourself out of that one, Potter?"

Harry shrugged. "Well, it's hardly a hereditary trait if _I _can speak it, is it?" Grinning, he turned to face Barnabus and said, _"You're a right bastard, you know?" _

Just when he thought his audience couldn't be more surprised. Most of the witches and wizards around the table had paled into corpses, some looking so frightened Harry was worried what to do should they faint.

He grinned again. "See what I mean? If the son of a Potter and a Muggleborn witch can be a _parselmouth _of all things, then maybe it's time to reconsider those legends we hold in such high regard."

The silence was soon broken when a wizard sitting at the far end of the table broke into applause. "Well said, Harry Potter, well said!" he said excitedly. "Eldred Worple," he continued, elbowing several others to shake Harry's hand. "It's about time someone did something about those blasted tales Beadle Bard and the like pass around, fogging up the truth and all..."

"Eldred here is the author of _Blood Brother: My Life Amongst Vampires_, currently on the Flourish and Blotts' bestsellers' list now that Lockharts' writings have been suspended," Slughorn explained, relieved.

"All thanks to you, Mister Potter," Eldred beamed. "My book is a memoir of the five years I spent living in a secluded vampire village. Sentiments towards vampires have remained apprehensive for far too long, and it is my absolute _dream _to change that. See, it isn't only _gifts _that aren't hereditary – so too are vampirism and even lycanthropy. The children of a vampire or werewolf may display certain behaviours different to the typical wizard, but they are _not _born as anything other than a human, just as their parents were. There is therefore no need for so much discrimination of either species!"

Harry stared, Eldred's passion taking him completely by surprise. He thought back to Remus Lupin's forced confession in front of a courtroom full of witches and wizards and forced down the rising guilt. _Perhaps I judged that Lupin character a tad too soon._

"Now, Mister Potter, if you could somehow have it down in official writing that no magical ability is hereditary, you would have my eternal gratitude and admiration."

Harry sighed. If only that was possible. To do so would kill off a lot of the elitism that existed amongst wizards. For one, the perception that one last name was any better than another would be a flawed argument in terms of magical ability. It would give people like Cass Black no right to assume she was any better than, say, Hermione. Respect should instead come with how much power you had. Harry wasn't delusional – a world where all witches and wizards were considered equal in power was just impossible, but if anything, the real selection process should be in terms of magical proficiency, and just how much one deserved to be lauded, instead of whatever affluence one was born into.

"I won't say it's impossible," he finally said, "but just really, really hard."

Later, as the Slug Club dispersed across the room, Harry found himself separated from his tutor by Dirk Cresswell.

"Harry Potter," he said quietly, "Professor Slughorn approached me earlier about occasionally helping you with History of Magic, seeing as nearly all of the content involves goblin conflicts, and there really isn't another wizard who knows about them as well as I do. I would be more than happy to assist you."

Harry started. "Erm, thank you. If this is about defending you from that Barnabus character-"

"Partly, yes." Cresswell reddened. "The Ministry of Magic, Mister Potter, is not a place where Muggle-borns generally work at, and a lot of it is because of the discrimination that goes on behind closed doors." He leaned forward a little, voice falling. "Just a heads up – Crouch, your representative, is planning a political coup at the moment. In about a week's time, the Head of Department of Magical Education position will probably be his – he's already challenged it, and the educational decrees he implemented in the Wizengamot makes him more than likely to gain this position."

Harry stared. _This _was what Aunt Cassiopeia meant by collecting. "And how does this affect me?"

Cresswell shot him an impatient look. "Think, Potter. The initial educational decrees he passed through the Wizengamot were obviously in your stead. You think he's happy with being treated like a lapdog, much less a twelve year old kid's? Clearly, he's after a bit of independent power, something he can work with without you breathing down his neck."

Harry blinked. "I see no problem with that."

Cresswell sighed. "Obviously, so does most of the Ministry. The problem is that Crouch is also planning a political coup of some sort…if he wins, he has total monopoly of both the Ministry _and _the Wizengamot."

Harry nodded, understanding a little. "Well, _I'm _not going to stop him, not when I have yet to see him do something I disapprove of." _Except for failing to contact me, at all. But that's merely a matter of pride, forgivable._

Cresswell shook his head. "Let's just hope the rest of us can think like you when the time comes."

Harry's retort was interrupted by Slughorn's loud laughter. "Harry my boy!" he shouted, "come join us."

Ditching Cresswell, Harry approached his professor, only to spot him with a young, excited-looking witch and the sullen-looking wizard, Barnabus.

"Harry, this here is Wendy Slinkhard, yet another author profiting from Lockhart's arrest."

"Mister Potter," she said hastily, "is it true that you've met the illustrious Bathilda Bagshot on numerous occasions?"

Harry thought for a moment. _Considering how I used to live in Godric's Hollow…_"Probably."

Miss Slinkhard gasped, thrilled. "Why this is _incredible! _I had heard that the Potters were good family friends with Ms Bagshot but…for you to actually _know _her…what is she like?"

Harry shrugged. "A bit out of it these days. Not that I'm calling her crazy," he hastily corrected, "only she's pretty out of the loop with what's been happening these days. Doesn't read the _Daily Prophet _anymore."

"And why not?" Barnabus, who had been silent up to this point, interrupted hotly.

"Calls it a load of rubbish," Harry drawled back. "Terrible journalism, total lack of objectivity in the most obvious of places…it's turned into the Ministry's mouthpiece."

Barnabus reddened. "Excuse me," he spat before charging off.

Harry frowned. Both Professor Slughorn and Miss Slinkhard were meanwhile attempting to avoid his confused stare.

"That Harry," Slughorn finally muttered after a moment of silence, "was Barnabus Cuffe, current editor-in-chief of the _Daily Prophet."_

It was knowing that the _Daily Prophet _probably wouldn't hesitate a second to print whatever flack they had on him that made Harry visit the Auror Office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, the very next day.

_-wizardry-_

"Alastor Moody," the one-eyed, one-legged man announced to a stunned classroom. "Ex-Auror, Ministry malcontent, and your new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher."

He paused for a moment, perhaps waiting for objections.

Truthfully, no one was brave enough to give any.

"I am here because retirement suddenly became a lot less appealing," he continued, "and because you kiddies need some protection from whatever beast is lurking around Hogwarts at the moment. Now when it comes to the Dark Arts, I'm _very _different to what the teachers you've had before are like. I believe in a more…_practical_ approach."

Harry was pretty sure half the class was close to tears at this point.

"When it comes to Defence Against the Dark Arts, I want us to learn exactly what it takes to defend ourselves from the Dark Arts, and exactly what the Dark Arts entail."

He whirled round, suddenly pointing at a surprised Draco. "You there! Think you know all there is to learn about the Dark Arts, do you? Think you know enough to pass notes in class, do you? DO YOU?"

Draco swallowed, his pale face rapidly turning beetroot. "N-n-no, sir."

"Good!" Moody shouted, "because none of you in this class will _ever _want to learn _any _Dark Arts by the time I'm done with you. And that's a promise." Moody leaned forward across his desk. Most of the students inched back in reply. "Believe me, the things a Dark wizard learns are evil beyond measure, the type of magic that can make your skin melt, twist your intestines, make your eyeballs burn with heat then fall out, have you screaming forever and ever and ever without ever being able to stop. And the worse ones I've seen go mad, so made that they boil their own children live in extra-large cauldrons and eat them when they're cooked extra-tender, limb by limb, one by one, picking out the hairs and bones to grind them into-"

Pansy Parkinson suddenly stood, as if in rebellion to Moody's words (which surprised more than one person), then promptly emptied the contents of her stomach across her desk.

_-wizardry-_

"Think about it this way," Harry said cheerfully, "our first two professors didn't last beyond a month. I mean, the first one didn't even _make it _to Hogwarts. Maybe this one'll sacrifice himself in the process of slaying the beast."

At his cheerfulness, his comrades all groaned.

"Potter, I hate you," Blaise angrily muttered. "Of all the bloody people you could choose from to salvage your political reputation, why Mad-Eye Moody? Did a fatal strain of dragon-pox strike and obliterate the entire Auror department until only the one survivor remained? Or maybe a nation of Inferi decided to take the chance and invade the Ministry, leaving only one person with the job of teaching us while the rest defended the state? Or were you just _that _desperate?"

Harry struggled to suppress his smile at his friend's melodramatic antics. "It's not _that _bad," he reasoned. "At least he'll be teaching us something, right?"

Daphne snorted, equally cynical. "Yeah, how to throw up our breakfast. Projectile vomit - I'm _sure _that'll keep the monster at bay."

But by the second lesson, the apprehensive students had walked in to a classroom transformed into a training room, with wooden targets scattered across the room.

"These targets mightn't be your average Dark creature," Moody shouted, "but here's where you kiddies will be starting. First lesson – aim, precision and strength. We'll be practising a very simple spell."

Moody pointed his wand at a nearby target. _"Incendio!"_

A flame hit the centre and immediately, it burst into flames, turning into ash within seconds.

"Potter!" he barked. "Why use fire?"

Harry blinked. "Dark creatures don't like them?"

"Correct! They repulse anything bright or hot. You stroll down a dark corridor and hear something coming to you that doesn't sound human and you _aim _this convenient little bugger their way. And then you _run. _Got it?"

Everyone nodded, eyes wide and enraptured.

"Now I want all of you to aim for the centre of each target – you hit anywhere else and these things are made to absorb the flame. WANDS OUT!"

No one hesitated.

"Aaaand go!"

All of a sudden, the targets started to float in the air and _move, _one of them knocking the unfortunate Neville hard in the head. Daphne shrieked, her high-pitched voice setting off the room into frenzy.

"Get up, laddie!" Moody roared. "Don't give in to the dark forces. Fight for your life! Hold your wand up in the air!"

Harry snorted. When it came down to defeating monsters, Neville seemed more inclined to cowering under the tables.

It took the entire lesson and more than ten minutes over before all the boards had stopped dancing around. The class, sweating and exhausted, had managed to alight three of its members' hair on fire, cause two members to lose consciousness, and burn four pairs of good robes.

It was a fine day at Hogwarts. No one in the castle dared to accuse Moody of being an inadequate teacher, ever again.

_-wizardry-_

Amid all the drama and chaos, Harry had nearly forgotten about Quidditch.

Of course, Flint's overbearing presence meant that a portion of every day was no matter what sacrificed to flying under rigorous conditions. The first Quidditch match of the season was fast approaching, and it was paramount that whatever frustrations he held, none of it would affect the game at hand. Following the victory of his trials, it was clear to anyone that the crowd expected an even greater performance from Harry this time round.

On the morning of the match, Daphne fussed over him like an impatient mother.

"One egg and two slices of bacon is hardly enough, Potter," she scolded. "Have some beans. And here – eat my strawberries-"

"Daphne," Harry whined. "They're _strawberries. _I'm _not _eating strawberries."

"Nonsense," she retorted. "You can't avoid eating fruits forever, you know. Besides, they're good for the skin."

It was a rare moment in which he actually felt like a regular twelve year old wizard, and he didn't know whether to be exasperated or amused.

Zabini snorted at the occasion. "Who knew you cared that much for Harry's complexion, eh Greengrass?"

Daphne lifted up her chin in a show of maintaining her pride. "There are _many_ things you don't know, Zabini. Of _course _I could care about our dear friend's health. He'll need it to win the match today, won't he?"

Blaise waved her excuse off. "Sure, sure."

Personally, Harry thought she just liked the attention.

Of course, the morning wouldn't be complete without Luna, who had completely abandoned the school uniform policy for a shimmery green and silver costume and matching face paint.

Daphne took one look before bursting into laughter. "What are you doing _this_ time, Lovegood?"

"I'm dressing up as a snake," Luna said cheerfully. "Do you like it, Harry? I thought I would cheer for the Slytherin Quidditch team seeing as you're playing in it. The other Ravenclaws thought it was brilliant, you know."

_Yeah, I wonder why. _Harry just shook his head, lost for words.

The match began fairly well, with Slytherin in the lead as their chasers struck true with the Quaffle, again and again in the absence of Wood, who had been struck off his broom moments after the Bludger had been unleashed. The goal posts were sloppily guarded by one of the Chasers, who seemed inches away from tears as yet another goal passed through.

"Slytherin in the lead, sixty-nil. C'mon Gryffindor!" Lee Jordon roared into the microphone. "Interesting to note that this is the largest turnout to any first match of the season Hogwarts has ever seen in, well, all the time I've been here," the commentator continued. "My seventh sense is telling me that such a phenomenon can only possibly have something to do with-"

"JORDAN!"

"Right – Slytherin scores again, seventy-nil!"

Harry grinned, then ducked at an approaching Bludger.

"Keep your eye on the game, Potter!" Draco shouted, metres away from him. Even from here, Harry could spot his smirk. "Us Chasers aren't exactly scoring for nothing, you know."

Harry's retort was cut short as the Bludger returned to his direction at such a speed that Harry only narrowly missed having his skull smashed. The crowd oohed.

"Sorry bout that, mate!" one of the Weasley twins shouted from below.

"Try to avoid getting me killed, Weasley," he yelled back, straining his broom to dodge the Bludger, yet again.

_Funny…it seems to be moving of its own volition. The twins don't even need to do anything for it to chase after me. _

There was only one thing to do – find the Snitch as soon as possible and end the game.

"And it seems that Kirke has seen the Snitch. Look at him dive-"

Harry groaned, swerving to the left just in time for the Bludger to slam against one of Slytherin's goal posts, hard enough to crack a little. As he watched the Gryffindor Seeker catch the shiny object, his heart sank. Meanwhile, the Bludger resumed its path and Harry continued fleeing for his life.

He groaned. No amount of goals now could possibly win the points needed for Slytherin to emerge out of a victory. It may be only the first match, but Harry knew Flint would be just as ruthless in his training, Draco no doubt just as smug.

"…never mind, folks, that was just a galleon that fell out of his pocket…Oh, and Slytherin scores again, eighty-nil! Looks like those Nimbuses are being put to good use today…"

Harry sniggered at the groan that emitted from the stands. _Wait a minute. The game isn't over yet! _

Luck had, unexpectedly and yet again, shone on Harry. With a smile and renewed enthusiasm, he went back to searching for the Snitch. Finally, he spotted it reclining perhaps two inches away from the Gryffindor Seeker, who reclined boredly on his broom, meters above the pitch. _Merlin, talk about being blind! How is anyone supposed to spot anything at that height?_

He smirked, deciding to give Kirke a surprise. He angled his broom sharply so that the handle pointed directly at him, then _dove._

"And what's Potter up to? Why he - KIRKE, you little-"

"JORDAN!"

The Seeker seemed to shake out of his daze, turning to see what it was that had riled the commentator, only to widen his eyes at the fast approaching Harry and his Bludger.

Harry winked.

At this, Kirke muttered a curse, still oblivious to the Snitch.

Then, just when Kirke had closed his eyes and seemed to accept his impending face, bracing for the impact, Harry jerked his broom minutely, turning to catch the Snitch that awaited only two inches away and meanwhile coming close enough to the Gryffindor for their robes to gently brush.

The crowd oohed.

"Amazing! What _was _that? What was _that? _It _looked _like a Wronski Feint, but Potter's move intimidated the opponent into freezing rather than what the Wronski does, which would be to feint a dive for the Snitch and inciting the opponent to copy, only to pull up at the last minute, essentially causing the opponent to hit the ground. He's looking smooth as hell on that Nimbus of his…"

"Jordan. The _score?"_

"Oh! Of course, Professor. Looks like it's a Slytherin win once again for the first match of the season, at two-hundred and thirty to nil. Gryffindor – hang on, what's Potter doing?"

_That's right, Jordan. The bloody Bludger's still coming after me!_

Harry, having circled the pitch about three times with only one hand on his Nimbus, was for once thankful for the many torturous exercises Flint had subjected him to. _Get a hint – thank Flint profusely when back on land. _For the time being, he definitely hoped someone in the audience had the ability to prophesize the Bludger's path of motion and somehow hex it into stopping.

Jordan continued his commentary, as if the game had yet to finish. No one stopped him; Harry guessed it was because most were too fixated on the rogue Bludger.

"Potter there is riding a Nimbus Two Thousand, a broom capable of reaching a maximum speed of _one hundred miles _an hour. The only thing quicker than that would be his teammates' Nimbus Two Thousand and _One, _but Potter sure isn't lagging behind, something _that _display is making very clear…"

Harry's jaw clenched. _The next time I hear the word 'Nimbus' again –_

"Potter's obviously straining his _Nimbus_ there. I say, it'll be a pity if a Bludger should destroy the _Nimbus-"_

"Jordan!"

McGonagall seemed to share Harry's exasperation, for after the rebuke, Jordan avoided straying to topics of personal interest, focusing instead on the current dilemma at hand.

"Interestingly, the Bludger following him seems to have no qualms catching up to such high speeds. Of course, any Quidditch player should be able to tell that Bludgers should travel at a speed of only forty miles, max. This one's _definitely _faulty if one hundred's not a hard target. The question is, what's to happen? Eventually, one of them is going to falter, and it's either Potter's broom or the magic of that Bludger. Fred, place my bets on the former will you?"

"JOR-"

"Joking, Professor! Sheesh…or was I? But anyway, here's what Potter will have to do to best that Bludger – figure out a strategy to completely crush the thing."

Harry swallowed, heart pounding. Despite having known it all along that it was too risky for the crowd to shoot any hexes and the Bludger was certainly too fast for any bystander's spell to hit, he wished someone was here to help him.

_Merlin, where's Moody when you need him? I didn't exactly bribe him with empty promises when it came to chances at saving the day, you know._

And then it hit him, hard in the head.

…

No, not the Bludger, but the fact that there was _no one _there to save him.

Hadn't that always been the story of his life? There had been no one to stop him from being cast into the Muggle world eleven years ago, no one to save him from the various Harry-huntings conducted by his cousin and his gangs except for his magic, no one to take command of his own life, his assets and seats. His parents were long dead, most of his acquaintances in the Wizarding world were ones who wouldn't hesitate to walk away at the hint of a better deal, and if they weren't the ones on fire, there were few others who'd bother entangling themselves into his life just to help extinguish the flames. Crouch was an obvious example of that. And as for Dumbledore, the supposed most powerful wizard of recent history, he hadn't bothered the first ten years, and it was unlikely that he'd bother now.

There was no one there to save him. There was only himself. And as such, it was time to get his act together.

And then an inspiration struck.

To defeat the Bludger was not a simple thing, not when the Bludger could easily match the Nimbus Two Thousand's speed and agility. There was, however, one thing that came with speed – the difficulty of turning.

Within seconds, a plan had formulated in his head. In a last ditch effort, he sped up his broom, widening the gap between him and the Bludger. He stuffed the Snitch in his mouth before reaching for his wand. Then, placing as much weight as he could onto the front of his broom, he _pushed down._

The Nimbus tilted, perpendicular to the ground. Harry, using all that he had left in him, threw his feet and their grip off the upright broom, letting the broom angle upward again and this time in the direction of the Bludger. He hung upside down for a moment, but swivelled back on top with frantic speed.

"HOLY MERLIN-!"

Jordan's outcry was not unfounded. Harry had perhaps preformed the first tumble-turn mid-air and on a broomstick, and was now flying in the direction of the Bludger.

"Does Potter have a _death wish-?"_

Just as he had predicted, the sudden change in direction confused the Bludger. Harry had essentially turned the tables, no longer being the pursued but now the pursuer, only the enchanted ball was too slow and too confused to catch the memo. It continued on its current path, and too all spectators, it could only seem like the two would cause a rather painful collision.

And then Harry acted.

"INDENCIO!"

Moody's practical lessons had effectively prepared him for this moment. With a precision that impressed even himself, the Bludger burst into flames, the force of the spell causing a semi-explosion as the enchanted ball combusted, and quickly became ash.

There came silence in the stadium as, once again, a crowd of spectators gawked at what Harry had just done with astonishment. Harry, physically and magically exhausted, landed moments later and took five steps before collapsing.

That seemed to wake everyone up from their stupor.

There came a universal sigh of relief as the stands became aware that the show was over.

Then there came applause, for Harry had yet again performed an act out of the realm of ordinary. The students, Gryffindor and Slytherin alike, could for once agree with one thing – Harry Potter _definitely _had powers beyond the normal.

Daphne and Blaise were the first to rush to the scene.

"Merlin, Potter," Blaise exclaimed. "Is there ever a day with you that _doesn't _involve chaos, the law or some unbelievable feat of magic?"

Harry's retort was stopped by Daphne shushing him crossly. "Honestly Harry," she huffed. "One of these days, you're going to find yourself in a situation that's _impossible _to get out of and you're-"

"_And_ he'll find a way to crawl out of it anyway." The face of the young Cassiopeia Black appeared in his line of vision, surprising him slightly. Her look of distain, a permanent fixture on her face (which was a pity, as she would look much better without it), was naturally still there but Harry supposed her sudden show of affection had something to do with him winning Slytherin the game five minutes ago.

Ah, the wonders of having such meaningful friendships.

Later, despite Harry's numerous attempts at talking his way out of it, the professors of Hogwarts had condemned him to the hospital wing and naturally Draco accompanied them all. "You know Potter," he said casually, "if this is what comes with being the Slytherin Seeker, I think I'll just leave that to you and stick with Chasing, thanks."

_Right. As if. _"And here's me, under the delusion that you actually _liked _attention. What was I thinking, Malfoy?"

"Mister Potter," Pomfrey cried, saving Draco from an embarrassment, "one would think that a wizard of your calibre would _understand _what it means to keep _silent."_

As it turned out, Harry was extremely exhausted. The problem of his First Year remained as it was – skillfull enough to cast the most advanced of spells, but found difficulty in retaining them without being exhausted. He was, in the words of Madam Promfrey, a _very delicate boy._

"I recommend a fitness regime that builds up endurance, Mister Potter. And a better diet."

At Daphne's pointed look, he rolled his eyes. "Great," he muttered, "someone just needs to inform Flint and my life is complete."

"_Potter, _no-"

"Talking, yes, yes I got it."

The peace was interrupted only moments later when Moody decided to pop in for a visit.

"Blast," he muttered rather disappointedly. "Watched it all from this eye of course," he said, pointing to the magical glass eye he adorned, "but knew I couldn't get to the pitch on time when the Bludger went after your blood. I should've known not to miss a Quidditch match involving Harry Potter."

Moody, Harry thought, was probably pleased his Defence lessons were being put to good use.

Within half an hour after Harry had been admitted into the hospital wing, nearly half the school had made their way to visit him. Of the many faces, he recognised Cho Chang and Marietta Edgecomb (who Daphne had kindly dubbed the leading duo of Harry's unofficial fan club under her breath), the more reluctant Mandy Brocklehurst and Padma Patil, no doubt forced to tag along, even Luna and her rather displaced remarks, the Weasley twins and a slightly embarrassed Percy, members of the Gryffindor Quidditch team who were remarkably pleased with Harry's performance ("It was _incredible, _Potter. Teach us how to do it someday, would you?") and even Snape (who had made it clear that he'd _only _marched over to keep an eye out for trouble).

_You'd think these people have never seen a patient before. And this isn't even a serious injury._

Dumbledore too had given Harry his best wishes, though Harry thought that was probably only because one of the _Daily Prophet _Quidditch correspondents and his photographer had, for some reason, attended the game and was now eager to meet him.

"Any words of wisdom for your fans, Mister Potter?" Harold Quant, the reporter, inquired as he madly took down Harry's over all condition in the scribbles on his notebook.

"I have Quidditch fans?"

This garnered a laugh from the _Daily Prophet _crew and Dumbledore, who let out one of his patented grandfatherly chuckles.

"With two new moves awaiting to be coined? I would _hope _so. It was the Seeker trials that really did it for us though, Mister Potter. A kid - Colin Creevey, you might've heard of him – sold us photographs he took of you that day. Got inspired after the success of that photo of the wink you made, last time we were here. Remember-?"

"Can't seem to forget," he muttered.

"Right. Well, that inspired him and he sold us the lot for something like fifty galleons. Boy, some of them were good pictures. Which reminds me – some friends on page ten would just like to know if you could confirm your relationship with the Greengrass girl?"

Harry groaned. _So there _was _a reason Daphne wouldn't stop sucking up to me. _A quick glance around the infirmary led him to spot Daphne, standing safely beyond

hearing (or yelling) distance and socialising with an equally bored Blaise.

"We're friends," he said grimly. "Our friendship is just so deep, you know? Definitely not one of those shallow, unfounded relationships where fame's the only thing a girl has in mind."

Naturally, Quant took his words seriously and jotted them down.

Madam Pomfrey was meanwhile throwing a fit at the amount of people idling around her base. "Out! _Out! All of you! _Mister Potter here needs his rest, despite what some of you _may _think!"

"One last question," Quant continued, undeterred. "The Nimbus Racing Broom Company, whose brooms you have in a number of situations advertised for, is rumoured to release their next broom in recognition of your contribution to both Quidditch and the Wizarding world. They're thinking of naming it the 'Lightning Bolt'. What do you have to say?"

Draco, who'd conveniently heard this last part, was frothing at the mouth with jealousy.

Harry shrugged._ My contributions to Quidditch? _What _contributions? _Which reminded him – he still needed to see whether Gringotts had kept up with the deposits to the broom-manufacturing companies his parents had been so fond of. "Too long. Something shorter like the 'Firebolt' implies the same thing just as effectively, you know." He paused. "And, erm, if you happen to see ol' Barnabus one of these days…try not to mention me at all, would you?"

No doubt he would be tomorrow's headline news. _Merlin, talk about adding salt to the wound. The man hates me but he still has to deal with what his readers like to read about, and for some reason that's me. _

Quant, impressed and bemused, nodded and finally left. His presence was soon replaced by Hermione's, who'd also dragged Ron and even Longbottom along for a look at him.

"Potter," Ron hissed before anything could be said, "do you have _any idea _what just happened?"

"Good day to you too, Weasley. Please enlighten me," Harry drawled, rolling his eyes at his classmate's overdramatic antics.

"That was _Harold Quant," _Ron stressed, eyes blazing with worship. "The man responsible for the rise of Lynch, the man who _coined _the Wronski Feint…Merlin, you just can't keep your hands off anything, can you?"

"Ron," Hermione scolded. "Ignore him Potter, what you did was _incredible_. You're proof to the world that Quidditch isn't _just _brawn and no brains."

Ron snorted, moving away and dragging Neville with him.

Hermione paused at the sudden moment of privacy, taking in his overall appearance. "Er, how are you, Harry?"

"I'm-"

"Clearly not fine, Ganger. They don't exactly put perfectly healthy people onto hospital beds, do they?" Daphne had returned from her sojourn to sneer disdainfully at the Gryffindor.

Of all things, Hermione reddened. "I wasn't-"

"I'll be fine. Don't worry." She looked too embarrassed (not to mention out of character) for Harry to not help her out a little.

Daphne huffed at his response, giving him a disproving it came to stirring up trouble though, Harry just couldn't help it.

He winked.

The entire room groaned. It was only then that Harry realised nearly everyone was watching his interaction with Hermione.

"I don't know if it's the winks that hint the something-out-of-the-ordinary or if they're just bad luck in general," Blaise muttered. "Either way, just keep them to yourself, will you Potter?"

"Oh I dunno, Zabini," Harry answered back, "I reckon they've saved the day at least a couple of times."

Famous last words. Harry had no idea just what destiny had in stall for him.

_-wizardry-_

Notes:

Dirk Cresswell is the Ministry official who forged a family tree, tried to run but ultimately died alongside Ted Tonks, and his character was bravely defended by Arthur Weasley. Here's someone whom I thought deserves a slightly better outcome.

Here's what I've done with Harry – I adore his snarkiness and wit. In his First Year, it had this bitterness to it that came with being an abandoned child. By now, he's matured into someone whose more world-conscious, someone who _won't _turn out to be the next Voldemort but will instead use his powers for good. I see it as getting the best of both worlds. A verbally cunning Harry can also remain on the side of good for once, I guess.

In addition, I absolutely _adore _his moments of triumph. There weren't enough of them in the canon, so I guess I'll be compensating for it here. I'm also thinking of adding in a little friendly flying competition between Harry and Krum in the near future.

I'd also like to thank the various people who have reviewed for this story. You are all phenomenal. Seriously. Writers don't exactly suffer from inferiority complexes, but there's no other way to explain the absolute joy we get in something as short as "I love your story! Please update soon!".

That being said, the people who bother to type up long and winding messages about how much they dislike my story, thanks for that also. It actually flatters me that my story bothers you so much and you lot are insightful enough to pick up so much my habits. Like telling me those little hints about the future annoy them – I don't think I'll be stopping any time soon, but nice try.

To the people who are getting increasingly disillusioned by what I write – by all means, spell it out for me just what part of my story enflames you, but please don't criticise it for being too similar to anything else you've read. Because believe it or not, this is a fanfiction. That means that fundamentally, it won't be original writing and it's writing based off someone else's work. As for this being similar to any other stories you've read, well apologies if that happens when you draw from the same characters and events and there's only a number of things that can happen without the story leaving the grounds of believability. _So_ sorry if purple polka-dotted unicorns don't burst in during a surprise Charms lesson doing the cancan, or if Harry doesn't decide to get multiple piercings, take up chain-smoking, convert to Buddhism and read Sartre in this story.

Also, the idea of telling an author off anonymously is just pure cowardice. In doing so, you're guaranteeing yourself the last word, you're saying things that you mightn't be brave enough to say if you actually logged on, because then you might actually have to face an equally insulting reply. Here's my reply to you now – I would respect you more if you actually had the guts to man up and say the same things you'd do anonymously, but this time to my face. The fact that you don't only means that you've even less courage than a seventeen year old girl (me), and to be honest, it ain't something I'd be proud of.

But to the people who _do _review, thank you. Just to name a few reviews that were really quite insightful, thank you to **Greener** (no really, your insight blew me away), **Aurora Borealis 97** (_very _good point you bring in there; just wait for third year I guess), **CeilingFan** (trust me, you'll get an answer in the next chapter), **sleepingdragon504** (I guess this chapter answered your question, didn't it?), **Passing-Glance** (an amazingly insightful and long review. I can only _hope _to live up to your advice), **HollzHatter** (thank you very much and _I _am smiling to know my story is so appreciated!), **SakuraCa** (I guess I never thought of it like that, but you're right) and **FreezingPenguins** (a heads-up for the next chapter: I promise Ron and Harry _will _be friends, but Ron may just do something in the next chapter I'm hoping you'll forgive me for…)

Some (ie **FreezingPenguins**) have noted that Harry's getting a little too arrogant. I suppose that can only make things more interesting when James comes around, eh? Also, to **Lord Toewart**, give me three chapters. James _will _come in. For now, just enjoy the ride.

I'm also thinking of changing my penname to 'quaquaquaqua'. I've grown out of the Victorian literature I'd once loved back when I was thirteen or fourteen, though Wilde will always remain close to my heart. These days, I'm a Post-Modern, existential type of gall. Bonus points to whoever figures out the meaning (or lack thereof) behind 'quaquaquaqua', without typing it into Google.

Next: A student petrified, Duelling Club (this'll be exciting, trust me), the Ministry's next attempt at bringing down Harry Potter and both finding out just how useful it is to have friends in high places, more Cassiopeia Black…and horcruxes.

So for the last time,

MaskWithATruth


	13. Chapter the fifth: leadershp part e

Disclaimer: Not mine. JKR's.

This chapter is wholly dedicated to **Snakefang93**, who sent me countless update requests over the months. Without their unrelenting support, I don't this chapter would have ever seen the light of day.

Chapter 5

part e

"Wands ready? Got Potter's rights memorised? We've all heard the stories – that kid can squirm his way out of any pin-sized loophole he can find. So if any of you dare to lay a single finger on him before you've read him his bloody rights and let him get away, I will _personally _strip you of your honour badge."

"We got it the first twenty times, Pius. Despite what you might think, the Auror Office isn't _completely _incompetent…"

"Just checking if you're still in the game, Dawlish. Gentlemen, what we are about to do is something very few honourable wizards have succeeded in doing before."

"Ambushing a twelve year old on a hospital bed _does _sound like something wizards with honour would avoid..."

"Shut it, Shacklebolt. We're waiting for the boy to gain his consciousness before acting, aren't we? Besides, he's more than well-equipped, even in this state. Or have you not heard the stories?"

"Regardless, this is a _twelve year old boy _we're dealing with-"

"A boy who experiences near death situations on a day to day basis, Shacklebolt. Your first mistake is to underestimate the Boy-Who-Lived. At eleven, he managed to survive his second Killing Curse, manoeuvred a near-impossible emancipation, single-handedly brought down Dumbledore and changed the rules on the Wizengamot. This boy, this very boy, has brought down the likes of _Dumbledore, _Shacklebolt. At twelve, he's already making a game out of destroying careers and picking his own teachers at Hogwarts. Even Quidditch isn't out of his scope – he's got _two _moves coined in his honour after only knowing the sport for just more than a year. And you dare to tell me this is an ordinary boy?"

"Don't get _too _starstruck there, Thicknesse. I doubt Potter would be willing to give you his autograph under custody any time soon."

"I – you – that's hardly the way to address your superior, Proudfoot!"

"You may be the Deputy Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and you might be our superior Thicknesse, but rest assured I have yet to see the day when Rufus Scrimgeour, the _actual _head of the Auror Office, does a single thing you tell him to."

"Nice one, Kingsley!"

"Yeah, well said there, mate. Well said."

"Will the lot of you just shut _up!_ Potter's waking up. Wands at the ready!"

_-wizardry-_

Harry awoke with the distinct sensation of uneasiness swirling in his empty stomach. It was the result of a nurtured and honed sensitivity that had succeeded in preparing him for countless surprise attacks Dudley's gang had attempted to spring upon him back when he still. The hospital was silent, far too silent, and the possibilities that arose from that stillness flooded him with apprehension.

He rose from his bed, dressing quickly. Glasses, robes, shoes, his cap. He drew back the curtains and, just as he readied himself to face another day's full schedule of adventure, drama and politics, he stopped.

Before him stood a circle of Aurors, each with a wand pointed unmistakably at him.

"Good morning, Mister Potter."

It had been a year since Harry had last seen him, and under slightly friendlier circumstances, but he recognised the smugness on Pius Thicknesse's face instantly.

_-wizardry-_

"Morning Mister Thicknesse. What a fine set of bodyguards you have there to protect you," Harry said nonchalantly. "Or are they just the witnesses you've conveniently picked up to testify against me in the unlikely chance that I, you know, kill you?"

Having inspected the Auror Office himself for Hogwarts' latest Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Harry naturally recognised all the faces. A simple glance instantly revealed two of the most impressive Aurors the department had to offer: Kingsley Shacklebolt, a distinguished wizard whose high level of professionalism had made him Harry's first pick right up until the retired (and hence conveniently unemployed) Mad-Eye Moody came to the scene, and John Dawlish, who naturally teamed up with Kingsley on the field to form a formidable duo. There was Proudfoot, Savage and Williamson, three who had instantly turned the other way upon spotting Harry searching for a willing Auror, most likely in the hopes of avoiding the quagmire of politics Harry seemed to drag with him. Then there was Gawain Robards, who Harry remembered had disregarded him for the very purpose of _staying _in the politics of the Auror Office, climbing the Ministry ladder with his eyes fixed on the Head of the Auror Office position. He had brought along his two underlings, Rogers and Grove, whose inexperience made Harry presume they were there solely for filling the spaces on either side of Robards at the hopes of making him seem somewhat important.

Ah what the general public would never know behind the shining doors of the Auror Office.

Thicknesse, meanwhile, had reddened at Harry's words but stopped himself from returning the gesture. "Oh, you mistake me, Mister Potter," he said after taking a moment to simmer down, determined not to be riled, "these men here aren't for my protection. They were, you'll be pleased to hear_, specially selected_ to suit _your _requirements."

Harry blinked. "My requirements?" he echoed, unmoved. "If this is still about selecting a Defence teacher-"

Thicknesse waved him off. "Let me elaborate. These men were specifically chosen to help placate you should you refuse to being questioned."

"Being questioned?" he repeated. "Merlin, Thicknesse. You've talked for less than five minutes and I've already come to the conclusion that you're quite incompetent for this job. That or you need to watch more Muggle television. You see, the agents operating on the side of good, which I'm _assuming_ refers to you, are supposed to deliver their victory speech to the villains, which _you're _assuming is _me_, for the purpose of exposing the exactness of their crimes to the general audience. Or, you know, the villains themselves. Currently, I'm _still_ waiting for my script to arrive."

Behind Thicknesse, the Aurors – most who had by this time dropped their wands - sniggered. It was obvious that Thicknesse held little legitimate control – besides the fact that he ranked higher in the hierarchy – and even the Aurors who had hoped to avoid him seemed eager to allow their amusement to participate, as long as their superior's ego fell in line of fire.

Thicknesse, to his credit, ignored them. "Don't play jokes on me, Potter," he snarled. "Nothing's going to get you out of this one."

"Or maybe what I'm trying to say _ain't _a joke," Harry snapped, feeling his irritation bubble. "Let me spell it out for you since you seem a little slow: What – have – I – done?"

And finally, the pin dropped. Thicknesse, who Harry doubted had made his way into the Ministry on brain cells alone, finally understood: Harry Potter _genuinely _had no clue what he was being arrested for.

If anything, this only seemed to please Thicknesse, and please him so much that the malicious glee bubbling away below his flimsy mask of professionalism could no longer be ignored.

"Harry Potter," Thicknesse enunciated triumphantly, savouring every syllable. "We have reason to believe that the actions you took during and after the last Hogwarts Quidditch game relate directly to the attacks that occurred on the same evening."

_No way. He's accusing me of being the Heir to Slytherin! _Harry froze, mouth falling open.

It was a rather triumphant moment. The only thing that undermined Pius Thicknesse's victory in any way was the hospital wing's doors banging open to welcome the arrival of Albus Dumbledore and his sidekicks McGonagall and Snape.

It was perhaps the only time Harry felt the rush of relief that came with Dumbledore's voluntary involvement in his life.

"Pius. I believe," Dumbledore said coldly, "that we need to take this elsewhere. Stealing a child from his hospital bed is _not _the way the Aurors operate."

Pius' entourage had the decency to respond by looking guilty and sheepish. Harry rolled his eyes. It seemed like Dumbledore was taking a page out of his book for once and actually told the authorities off. Hurrah. _Keep this up Dumbledore and we might just be on the road to forgiveness._

"My office, gentlemen?"

_-wizardry-_

And so, once again, Harry found himself in the position of defendant in the courtroom that was the Headmaster's Office. Every set of eyes peered at him, some curiously and others contemptuously, most with the practiced subtlety of long-standing portraits that seemed from all angles the very picture of indifference, but _all_ extremely interested in uncovering the truth.

"Why not begin with what it is Mister Potter here seems to be accused of, Mister Thicknesse," Dumbledore started tiredly.

"Oh, I believe we all know what he's done, Headmaster. Potter included," Thicknesse remarked impatiently. "This morning, we were informed by the brother of the victim, Mister Creevey, that something catastrophic had occurred in Hogwarts. His household was, only the night before, crudely informed of the attack made on his older brother Colin. Soon after, some _questioning _was made and Dennis Creevey decided to notify us on some of the happenings at Hogwarts his brother had only been too happy to write to him about. It let us to a rather enlightening discovery." Thicknesse's lips stretched into a smile. "We have strong evidence to suggest that _you, _Harry Potter, are the Heir of Slytherin, the sole perpetrator behind the recent attacks."

"And what evidence _do _you have?" Snape came to his defence, though sounding more curious than defensive.

"I am sure my last visitation of your school hasn't left your memory, Dumbledore," Thicknesse began gleefully. "Didn't Mister Potter _himself _say from his very own lips that he could, very likely, be the Heir of Slytherin if the Sorting Hat was so insistent on him going to Slytherin that even carrying the Sword of Gryffindor did nothing to deter him?"

For an instant, Harry's blood ran cold. Hadn't he known all along that some jibed comment he had uttered to an audience would someday come back to bite him? Now, finally, the terrible thing had happened – his own cleverness was being used against him.

"The boy also mentioned he was the Heir of Gryffindor," Snape remarked, when it became clear that Harry wasn't about to say anything.

"And indeed, he convinced us enough to be allowed to keep of the Sword of Gryffindor." Thicknesse's smile remained smug. "By the same reasoning, we should also therefore believe him to be the Heir of Slytherin, should we not?"

"This is ridiculous!" McGonagall exclaimed. "You're taking in the arrogant words of a mischievous eleven year old as proof of his guilt?"

Thicknesse didn't even blink. "Perhaps I wouldn't, had not more proof come my way. I see all of you have yet to read today's edition of the _Daily Prophet."_

Harry's eyebrows rose. Had it been someone else's life, he would've perhaps been impressed by how swiftly bad fortune from all corners seemed to strike simultaneously. _Barnabus has made his move._

"Breakfast as yet to start, Thicknesse," Snape snapped, irritated and oblivious to his student's growing horror. "I'm afraid whatever bad news _Prophet _is now keen to deliver has yet to arrive."

"Well then, I am all too happy to give you a summary of what I'd read," Thicknesse replied cheerfully. "Today's edition includes a front-page article written by the editor-in-chief, Mister Barnabus Cuffe himself about, can you believe it, your golden boy being a _parselmouth."_

There was silence in the room, nothing to be heard except Dumbledore's phoenix pecking away, and the heavy breathing of a triumphant Thicknesse.

"Has the _Daily Prophet _fallen so far from journalistic integrity that even its editor now dares to print lies?" They were brave words uttered at his defence, but even Harry could sense the uncertainty that lurked behind McGonagall's staunch frame.

"Lies? Oh _you_ may wish it were so, but believe me dear Professor, your boy just as much as confessed it himself." Thicknesse was almost frothing out the mouth with satisfaction.

"How dare-"

At this point, Harry decided to say something before the situation at hand _really _deteriorated.

"It's true," he muttered, of all things he could have said, "I _am _a parselmouth."

Nearly every face in the room turned to him with shock, stunned by his confession.

_The truth isn't important. It's what the rest of you do about it that is._

"But being a parselmouth certainly doesn't prove me to be Colin Creevey's attacker-"

"There are scores of witnesses who would gladly testify to your conversation with Harold Quant, as well as to his mentions of Mister Creevey. The photographer himself has already relayed to us his series of events. When informed of Mister Creevey's role as informer of your various Quidditch perils, what did you do but groan, _groan _with exasperation and contempt for the boy!"

"Well if I _groaned_," he muttered sardonically, "then _obviously_ no further questioning is needed about my murderous intentions."

Behind them, a few Aurors choked back laughter.

"That isn't all we have, Potter," Thicknesse continued, unperturbed. "Your last public appearance involved a wink and the words 'I reckon they've saved the day at least a couple of times', 'they' referring to your signature gesture, did they not?"

"Oh, and now I _wink-"_

"Answer the question, Mister Potter. Did you or did you not say those words moments after you had winked as an assurance of your wellbeing to your acquaintance Hermione Granger?"

Harry shrugged. "Oh, I apologise," he returned. "I should probably answer that verbally, shouldn't I? Lest you translate the next action I make into me being the Dark Lord's son or something equally ludicrous."

Thicknesse's eyes narrowed, far from amused. "Is that a confession, Mister Potter?"

"A _joke, _sir," Harry drawled to the amusement of the Aurors. "While I realise humour is a concept lost on you-"

"Try _not _to stray from the subject at hand, you arrogant, disrespectful boy," Thicknesse snarled. "The last words you had spoken, in relation to your wink, clearly signified your awareness of the link between their timing and the incidents that occur afterwards, yes? You went so far to state they "saved the day", clearly indicating your winks as being planned with precision and foresight. Each one of them was made with a clear understanding of the near future, each one of them signalling an instance no one else but yourself could expect. And what happens after _this _particular wink but the attack of Colin Creevey?"

"That is, I think, _enough, _Mister Thicknesse." Dumbledore, finally, had decided to intercept. "You bring up many interesting assumptions along with your accusation, Pius. Assumptions which I do think it is time to correct.

"The boy is a Parselmouth, yes, but merely speaking a language has never been enough for one to instigate an attack. Otherwise, I'd think your superior Mister Crouch who I know speaks over a hundred languages, would be somewhat of a Dark Lord himself, don't you think?"

"But the _Heir of Slytherin-"_

"Hagrid, who you accused fifty years ago of holding the title, was about as fluent with Parseltongue as I am with Mermish."

Thicknesse's face was slowly turning red. "He – but he _winked _for Merlin's sake-"

"I don't think there's anyone in _Britain _who hasn't been privy to Mister Potter's wink, Thicknesse," Snape remarked, adding his two cents. "While it surprises no one that it has taken you so long to deduce what most of us have realised quite some time ago, please refrain from making _too _much of a fool out of yourself by announcing your obtuseness to the Wizarding World."

Thicknesse spluttered, clearly a stranger to Snape's patented sarcasm.

"Yes, Thicknesse," Snape continued patiently, "We _do _realise a correlation exists between certain events and Potter's…winks. And such is even more reason to believe in his innocence. Is it not true that when these events _do _occur, they operate to Harry Potter's advantage? I highly doubt a boy with such foresight could have possibly failed to predict his own arrest had he made it so indisputably obvious that he was the perpetrator."

Thicknesse snorted, unconvinced. "You overestimate your student, Snape. Arrogance is never fool-proof. It was inevitable that Potter would botch up his careful plans one day." He glared at Harry. "You must think you're incredible, boy. A national hero at one and sending celebrities to prison before you've even hit puberty."

Harry, despite knowing he was on the verge of being arrested, couldn't help but rise to the occasion and grin. "If you must know sir, I _do _think I'm pretty awesome. But who knows – maybe you'll decipher the mystery behind the wink for yourself one of these days, eh?"

Thicknesse looked seconds away from cursing him. Behind them, the Aurors sniggered once more, eager to show their dislike for their superior. As relief flooded him in having avoided a disaster and he allowed himself a moment to relax, he wondered what it had taken for Thicknesse to convince the Aurors to act in his aid.

"This issue is far from over, Potter," he spat. "Mark my words – someone will push you off that pedestal very, very soon, and there will be _nothing _your arrogance or wit can do for you."

Harry gave him his sweetest smile. _Merlin, if looks could kill._

Immediately after delivering his warning, Thicknesse turned to leave. His Aurors dallied for only a minute, looking in far better spirits than when they had first entered. Dawlish and Kingsley were the last to leave. Dawlish shot him a quick smile and Kingsley, having waited till he was the only Auror left in the room, turned to give Harry a wink before hastening to join the others.

At the sudden lack of crowdedness in the room, Harry breathed a moment's relief. It was a win, but only narrowly so. Barnabus' editorial was sure to send great repercussions across Wizarding Britain and no doubt a riot awaited him outside Dumbledore's office.

"A narrow escape, Mister Potter," Snape commented. "You seemed a little off form this morning."

"Severus," McGonagall rebuked, though she seemed to agree. "Potter, you need your rest. I will accompany you back to the Hospital Wing-"

"Hang on a minute, Professor," he interrupted, ignoring her affronted reaction. He turned to Dumbledore, who watched him expressionlessly. "Headmaster. I think I've heard far too much about this Heir of Slytherin not to ask you this – just _exactly _what is the Heir of Slytherin, why are they attacking Hogwarts and why am _I _the one accused of being him?"

Snape snorted. "Disappointing, Mister Potter. What with your curiosity and penchant for research last year, one would have expected you to investigate into Hogwarts' history long ago. _Especially _seeing as you were attempting to convince the rest of us that you _were _the Heir of Slytherin at the time."

Harry snorted. _Trust Snape. _

McGonagall seemed scandalised by the Head of Slytherin's nonchalance. "Severus, _really. _This is quite a serious matter we have here-"

"The Heir of Slytherin," Dumbledore interrupted, his humourless tone echoing McGonagall's sentiments, "is the last living descendent of Salazar Slytherin who possesses his ability of Parseltongue."

Harry frowned. "It _has _to be more than just a hereditary title, Professor."

"Perceptive," Dumbledore remarked. "You are right, Mister Potter. The legend of Slytherin's heir concerns not just any heir, for there have been hundreds, but rather it is the legend of the _true _Heir of Slytherin. An heir that carries not only his blood, not only his gift of Parseltongue, but also the vision that Salazar Slytherin stood for and believed in."

"And just what did he believe in?" Harry had a clue.

Dumbledore regarded him with wary eyes. "In the crudest sense, Slytherin advocated for the eradication of all Muggle-borns, and subsequently for a Wizarding society that only consisted of Pureblood witches and wizards like himself." He smiled. "Of course, such is a thousand year old tale passed down largely by word of mouth. It is very possible his intentions have become altered over the years."

Harry sighed, thinking of Slughorn's words. "Well then. There's only one person the true Heir could possibly be, isn't there?" If Dumbledore had expected him to jump at the defence of his house's namesake, he said nothing to suggest it. "The Dark Lord – or as I'm told, Tom Marvelo Riddle."

Dumbledore stared at him sharply, clearly not expecting him to have known Lord Voldemort's real name.

"May I ask how-"

"Professor Slughorn doesn't _only _hold social gatherings during our lessons, Professor," Harry said pointedly.

Dumbledore nodded. "And did he tell you of the first time the Heir of Slytherin-?"

"Certainly. Let's not even get to the fact that Hagrid the Hogwarts Groundskeeper was wrongly convicted of posing as the heir." Harry grimaced. "It was with the awareness that things could seriously worsen beyond control that I sought out Mad-Eye Moody to be our Defence teacher."

Dumbledore nodded once more. "I must say, I'm rather impressed with Horace. One would have expected his actions to be a little more…self-motivated."

Harry snorted. "He wouldn't be a Slytherin if self-interest wasn't his greatest concern, though as for why he's so eager to assist me…" He shrugged. "Or perhaps it has something to do with my mother and that it was her love and sacrifice that led to my triumph against the Dark Lord which did it for him…" He grinned. "I suppose, at the end of the day, between letting the Dark Lord rule once more and having the Boy-Who-Lived run free, he chose the lesser of two evils."

Dumbledore's eyes had once again reverted to their sharp, penetrative state. Something in Harry's words had noticeably shocked him. "You know of your mother's sacrifice?" Harry shrugged in response. "May I ask how-"

"I told him, Headmaster," Snape said curtly. "As I did the prophecy."

If anything, Dumbledore became even more surprised by this statement. "Ah," he said after a moment. "I – thank you, Severus."

"It was not my story to keep," Snape returned evenly, "though perhaps I would have, had certain…assumptions not been proven false the day I met Mister Potter."

Harry stared between the headmaster and his Head of House, mystified as he was sure McGonagall was also. Both avoided his gaze.

"So about this Heir," he brutally interjected, when neither seemed to feel the urge to enlighten him. "Only he could possibly have the power to open Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets and release the beast, probably his very means of purging the school's Muggle-borns. And now that the beast has indeed been released, it would be safe to say that the longer this goes for, the more our Heir the Dark Lord is gaining power, yes?"

Dumbledore had, it seemed, given up trying to deduce where Harry had drawn his conclusions from. "Yes, Mister Potter. But what astounds me is how Tom Riddle could have recovered to a state powerful enough to enter Hogwarts grounds undetected, reopen the Chamber of Secrets and release its monster, with every confidence that he could possibly succeed."

Harry couldn't help but raise his eyebrows at Dumbledore's voluntary confession. "Something less difficult than possession," he answered slowly. "Is it possible to possess not a human, but perhaps an animal? Or even an object of some sort that is carried around often by students…?"

Snape snorted. "The possibility of the Dark Lord encasing himself within the bindings of a schoolbook is highly unlikely, Potter. Even less chance than Ronald Weasley's infamous pet rat has of being a disguise."

Harry shrugged. "Just a thought."

Dumbledore, however, looked pensive.

"If the lot of you won't mind, I _do _believe it is time for Mister Potter to return to the Hospital Wing and _rest," _McGonagall interrupted, irate at the apathy all three of them seemed to show towards Harry's wellbeing. Harry didn't complain; if anything, he was slightly amused at the way McGonagall seemed to treat them, like the mother figure he'd often admired on the telly, rounding up the boys and stopping them from blowing anything up. It touched him a little to know how much she cared for him, despite the image of fairness she protruded in the classroom.

Which reminded him. "Where's my guardian?" Harry asked, steps away from the door. "Shouldn't Aunt Cassiopeia be present at something as momentous as my arrest? I would've thought…"

His chain of thought trailed off. There was silence as no one answered him. Harry swallowed, struck momentarily with the thought that perhaps it would have been better not to have stopped and asked. Perhaps he should have just allowed his ignorance to protect him, and perhaps it would have preserved for a time, as the Hogwarts students preoccupied themselves with the editor-in-chief's shocking article on the Boy-Who-Lived's Parceltongue ability, never bothering to read beyond the pages focused on Harry Potter and certainly not any of the obituaries printed at the back that would document his great-aunt's death.

Finally, Snape, the bearer of bad news, told him.

"I'm sorry, Potter. We thought you knew."

_-wizardry-_

Cassiopeia Black, the eldest member of the Blacks until her death, was found dead hours after the Quidditch Game that prompted the coining of two Quidditch moves, both made by her great-nephew.

As he had suspected, the news had been pushed aside by all that had happened before and after the discovery, most of which was credited to Harry. The Parselmouth story only served to cause further controversy in the life of Harry Potter, and no doubt drew for the _Daily Prophet _another record sale of papers. Angering Cuffe had been an arrogant and foolish thing to do, and it took Harry only the worst of circumstances to realise.

Yet again, Hogwarts found itself split. The majority of the school seemed to accept the fact that Harry was the Heir of Slytherin as being amongst his long (and still growing) list of achievements. As such, most Slytherins treated him with wary respect, with the occasional person of questionable sanity practically worshipping the ground he stood on. Unsurprisingly, the Hufflepuffs either avoided him or attempted to rile him with a backhanded compliment of some sort. Then there were the Ravenclaws – torn between curiosity (how exactly was it that a half-blood Potter came to bear the blood of Slytherin?) and the repulsion that came with believing Harry was behind Colin Creevey's attack. Cho and Marietta had all but avoided him, though Cho gave him the occasional sympathetic look when she passed. The Gryffindors were the only ones who went on fanatically defending his innocence, though he knew the count of his supporters lessened every day.

"You're saying the Boy-Who-Lived, the one who defeated You-Know-Who twice, is also the Heir of Slytherin?" he had heard one of the Weasley twins exclaiming to a classmate days ago. "Mate, get your priorities sorted."

"We've got you all figured, Potter," Macmillan had hissed to him as he and his group of glaring Hufflepuffs passed Harry one afternoon. "Don't even think that attacking us Hufflepuffs will be something you can get away with."

"Harry, you wouldn't know another use for the mandrake root, would you?" Daphne had asked casually one breakfast morning as she pondered over her half-finished Herbology essay. "I've got the beauty benefits, and there's of course the use in potions, but what were the health-"

"Daphne," Pansy had hissed.

What had followed was a moment of silence, during which Harry, who had his eyes focused on his meal, presumed glances were exchanged. Daphne had evidently gotten the message, for the rest of the morning had been spent with a lingering awkwardness amongst them, one that gambled with Harry's patience. The other Slytherins had followed in Daphne and Blaise's examples, staying subdued until, presumably, he had left their congregation to do something.

This, unfortunately, was becoming a chore. His closest friends were the only ones in Slytherin that remained dubious to his being the Heir of Slytherin, but they seemed convinced that he was grieving for the great-aunt that had died. Every word was treaded on carefully. Perhaps they hoped to avoid any outbursts they had expected him to give.

Was he sad that his great-aunt had passed? More than merely a little. Cassiopeia Black wasn't exactly the perfect guardian but she had been something – she had provided him with a home, a heritage and a tutor. She had been strict and cruel at times, but she was not without her reasons. Like every mother who saw the potential for greatness in her child, she had wanted only the best for him and from him.

He had been given fair warning that her health was deteriorating, but when the news did hit him, he was still surprised. Amid all else that was happening, he had taken her completely for granted. This naturally didn't help curb his guilt.

But what truly frustrated him, more than the question mark they had drawn beside his innocence could ever succeed in blackening his mood, were the rumours of his great-aunt's death that emerged as the days passed. Word had gotten out that the two of them had visited Godric's Hollow less than a month before Cassiopeia Black's death. The old tale of the township being cursed with death seemed to have returned, this time in full swing as people all around him speculated amidst fears of him being the Heir.

"Luna," he finally snapped one afternoon in the library, "shut _up."_

Luna, oblivious to all that was stirring beneath the surface, had been entertaining her vicinity with _The Quibbler_'s explanation for the cause of his great-aunt's death, blood loss from the unexpected vampire attack of an undead lover. She blinked at Harry's sudden interruption.

"I'm sorry," she said, when it became obvious even to her that Harry wasn't about to say anything, "have I offended you?"

Nearby, Daphne stayed wisely quiet but from her leaked a muted scoff. No one seemed particularly eager to defend Luna, not when it was Harry she had incensed.

He shrugged in response. "You mightn't mean any harm," he remarked as he gathered his things, "but I wish you'd _think _about what you have to say first before – you just take all the speculation and treat it like some – _that's my guardian there!"_

Around him, as always, people stared.

"It's alright for you," he continued, "to take it like an interesting theory, but guess what Luna? That's my great aunt your father's magazine is publishing bollocks about. That's my great-aunt! And if you think it's alright to spew any of that garbage without any consideration for how the rest of us is feeling, you in your simple little fantasy world – well then you're wrong, because it's _not _alright. It's _not." _

His outburst seemed to have shocked everyone, even the Slytherins. Daphne and Blaise had both dropped their disdainful façade long ago and even Hermione, who of course was nearby in the library and had witnessed his outburst, seemed to take his words with disbelief and disappointment.

_Great. Within an hour, the lot of them will probably take it as confirmation of me being the Heir of Slytherin._

Only Luna seemed to look apologetic. "I'm sorry, Harry Potter. I-"

Harry stormed out of the library, the rising need to escape flooding him.

Yet again, his life had become a soap opera, something others took entertainment out of, perhaps a life at moments envied, but one which most were happy to label as being someone else's. Jokes and conversations were being made at his expense, and Harry Potter's most recent outburst would no doubt be the latest news by the end of the day.

When he finally withdrew from his anger, he realised he had made his way to the lakeside. Still frustrated, his hands grabbed at the pebbles that rested on the edge of the lake. Then, with all his might, he threw as far as possible, sending a cataclysm of tiny stones forward, piercing the smooth surface of the lake.

"Bollocks," he found himself saying out loud. "Bloody hell."

It was inevitable – at the end of the day, no matter how the rest of the world including himself wanted to see Harry Potter as, he was still just a boy. He had flaws, despite how he wished he didn't, and he had emotions. Were he anyone else, perhaps Hermione Granger, he could easily call his actions as being in the wrong – he had been irrational, he was childish and no part of what he had done was what a leader should do. But what did _Harry Potter _see? He knew he had erred but help it he could not. Human nature was like that at times – it got even the best of men.

For perhaps hours, he stayed where he was, at the lakeside. Before long, he noticed figures in the lake bobbing at the surface as they watched him. At a distance, they seemed humanoid – perhaps mermaids, or perhaps kelpies the surrounding mist was playing tricks of the eye on. Another day and he would have been interested but it was the wrong time for sight-seeing. Tonight, he stared at them blandly, counting their heads. Twenty-eight had come and gone. Above him the skies reddened, softening the colour of the grass.

Perhaps this was mourning. Even though he consciously felt that he was sad but not distraught, perhaps a greater part of him sensed that this was the death of someone who, in the years to come, would have truly mattered. It was what could have been that was really getting to him. Only a year of knowing Cassiopeia Black and his life had changed so dramatically. Perhaps by the time he finished Hogwarts, he would have been able to think of her as a mother.

"Hell," he muttered. "Just…hell."

"Having a good time here, are we?"

Harry started. The distinct quality of Moody's voice eliminated the need to confirm by turning to face him. Instead, he stayed where he was, waiting for his teacher to join him.

What Moody had bought with him surprised Harry a little. In his hand was a folded newspaper cut-out.

"If that's another slew of lies you're handing me-"

"It's your guardian's obituary," Moody said bluntly. "Thought you might like a copy rather than hearing it for somewhere else."

Harry took it gingerly, unfolding the paper to discover a picture of what he presumed to be his great-aunt, infinitely younger and looking remarkably similar to Cassiopeia Black the Second.

Cassiopeia Black

1915-1992

The Honourable Cassiopeia Black has humbly left us after a life as a cultural icon, philosopher, political commentator and literary critic. Her contribution to the Wizarding World has been exceptional. She is credited for appropriating Nietzschean philosophy for the Wizarding population in her works _Masters and Slaves, The Question of Good and Evil _and _Power, The Third Option, _of which accommodated her own influences from her contemporary Gellert Grindelwald. The introduction of his ideology to the British Wizarding community is attributed to the sole efforts of Ms Black, whose longest and most controversial work _For The Greater Good _is speculated to have been written in his honour. Her philosophical and political works are furthermore presumed to be You-Know-Who's greatest influence, forming much of his earlier principles; her political support of his cause years later also assisted in much of his early rise to power…

Harry's hands shook as he continued to read. Certain words stood out, repeated throughout the page-long obituary. Finally, when he had finished, he crushed the thin paper in his hands, fiercely scrunching it into a ball.

"Bloody hell," he said, "I didn't know her at all, did I?"

How ironic was it that the most he would ever learn about his great-aunt, perhaps his closest magical relative, would be through her obituary? Never once had he bothered to question her background, never did he even consider she had a history worth pondering over. It horrified him to think that he had been living with perhaps the greatest supporter of not one, but _two _dark lords. No wonder the _Daily Prophet _made him out to be the next dark lord when _Cassiopeia Black_ was his guardian.

But then there was the other thing – he had lived with perhaps one of the greatest Wizarding minds, one that had contributed so immensely to Wizarding culture, and he'd never even known. _No wonder she got along so well with Bathilda Bagshot – they were probably chums back in the day. _He had underestimated the cruelty of his great-aunt to be something solely rooted in prejudice and hatred. Was she a better person than what he had seen her to be? No. If anything, she seemed even worse. But it was indisputable that she was a far more astute individual than he'd given her credit for.

_How must she have thought I saw her as? Perhaps as just an old lady, too strange and crazy to take seriously, of whom had such a unique past I had never once bothered to question._

_-wizardry-_

"Potter?"

A muffled response was the only reply Professor Snape received as he enquired in the second year Slytherin boys' dormitory.

Harry, meanwhile, was busy attempting to decipher _Master and Slaves, _the first book his great-aunt's obituary had mentioned. It was a convoluted mix of philosophy - obtained from the Muggle philosopher Nietzsche and his concept of master-slave moralities which Cassiopeia occasionally alluded to – Wizarding psychology – in which his great-aunt brutally separated the Wizarding world into the Dark and Light wizard mindsets, then proceeded to analyse and compare the two – cultural critique – in which she connected the 'growing apathy of the Wizarding world' with the domination of the Light wizard mindset – and propaganda, where every second chapter seemed to end in relation to the miracle that was Grindelwald. Despite this, Harry couldn't help but feel light being shed the more he read. 'For the greater good', a phrase he could still somewhat remember his great-aunt saying during their first disastrous meeting, was in fact Gindelwald's motto.

"Potter," Snape repeated, this time resigned, "what are you doing?"

Wordlessly, Harry handed him the article. Whether or not, Snape pondered over its crumpled state, he mentioned nothing. There was silence as he scrutinised its contents.

"Cassiopeia Black," Harry muttered. "Nothing is what it seems these days. Even people you thought you knew turn out to be something completely different. And to think even the _Daily Prophet's _obituary writer knew her better than me…"

Snape snorted. "Despite being astoundingly mature, Potter, you still never fail to act your age at times. You think a mere stranger, most likely employed to write obituaries for those whose loved ones fail to produce any, knows more of Cassiopeia than you do?"

"Yes," Harry bit back. "That is exactly what I think." He snatched back the article. "A cultural icon, a philosopher, a political commentator, a literary critic. I never knew she was any of these things when she was alive. I never cared – never even bothered to-"

"Potter, wipe your eyes."

Indeed, he was startled to discover they were wet.

"You truly think there was nothing Cassiopeia Black offered for you, beyond that of a guardian?" Snape's eyes were the softest Harry could ever remember them being. "How about a mother, Harry? How about a parent who cared?"

Harry sniffed. "She worshipped Grindelwald, that much is clear. And probably the Dark Lord too. As for why she took me in – well, I suppose it explains why she always urged me to take on the Wizengamot, doesn't it? She thought I'd follow in their footsteps."

Snape sighed, slightly irritated. "You are mourning, Mister Potter," he murmured. "When you are calmer, please think things over. There is a reason why no one stopped her from being your guardian, just as there is a reason why you have not discovered her illustrious career until after her death-"

"And _what_ is that reason?" he hissed.

But Snape just shook his head. "It is not my place to tell," he said. "Perhaps one day, you will realise why the rest of the Wizarding World has forgiven her." Then he picked up her obituary. "This was written in the _Daily Prophet, _Mister Potter. I wonder if this being the same newspaper accusing you of posing as the Heir of Slytherin should mean anything to you."

With that, Snape left.

And for the first time he could remember, Harry cried.

_-wizardry-_

As the days passed and the _Daily Prophet _no longer saw it necessary to show their respect for the recently deceased, a slew of articles had been published – and by Cuffe himself – that 'exposed' the true colours of Cassiopeia Black. As if Harry hadn't already felt the sting of her past's betrayal.

Talk of Harry as the Heir of Slytherin naturally continued, now stronger than ever what with stories of Slytherin house's notoriety burning under the growing flame of Cassiopeia's history.

Like him, his generation seemed largely unaware of the figure that was Cassiopeia Black beyond what the _Daily Prophet _had promptly published as an indirect attack on Harry. As a mark of their ignorance, most had soaked up whatever Cuffe had written. The man was careful – perhaps in anticipation of the retaliation that was likely to follow, he had cited all his sources with astonishing accuracy. Phrases were taken straight out of Cassiopeia's mouth, testified by various witnesses he had used an entire page to list. Harry knew this, because Hermione Granger had seen it prudent to inform him that she had personally looked up every single source.

"This isn't like the time with Skeeter," she said, looking apologetic. "Cuffe learnt from her mistakes. He's directly quoted from most of his sources and none of them are used out of context either. What he's writing is the truth. I'm sorry, Harry."

Harry shook his head, not saying anything. Perhaps she had expected him to ask her why she had bothered attempting to help him, but his mind was too numb to formulate into words all that he had to say.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Hermione repeated as he walked off, still dazed.

How could he even _begin _to defend her honour when – as a first – every word the _Daily Prophet _had published was the unforgiving truth?

In the days that followed, he drifted between meals, lessons and sleep. He took in Luna's apology serenely with only one ear listening. He asserted his wellbeing to a concerned Hermione, then to his fellow Slytherins who were beginning to find him abnormally inattentive. McGonagall took him aside, assuring him his grades were as excellent as ever, though could he please answer more questions in class, and if there was anything she could do for him, he only needed to ask. All the sly comments and slurs thrown his way had become muffled, something he was somewhat thankful for.

Days passed before things began to change. Daphne slammed her cutlery on the table one morning, her patience finally broken.

"That's it. I've had enough," she snapped, "snap out of it, Potter. Do you truly think that only _you _are entitled to grieve?"

Harry stared woodenly. "I'm not-"

"She was just as close to you as she was to Draco and Cass," Daphne snapped, "both of whom have known her their whole lives. But have you even _bothered _to consider how they would feel?"

He reddened, then discretely looked around, hoping to catch a glimpse of either Cassiopeia or Draco. He found the two sitting on the other end of the Slytherin table, eating and conversing nonchalantly. Despite their indifferent appearance, Harry couldn't help berating himself for having completely forgotten about them.

"You never even liked her," Daphne said sourly. "Do _you_ know when her birthday is? Because I'm pretty sure if I ask Cass there, she can answer without even thinking. Can you say the same?"

"You don't think I realise I knew nothing about her?" he hissed back. "You think there's no part of me that wishes things were different?"

"If that's what you're thinking, then you certainly haven't done much to remedy the situation, have you?" Daphne continued mercilessly. "What about her funeral, Potter? They buried her while you were too busy moping. Only a handful of people turned up, what with no one having felt it necessary to announce any official gathering. Where were you then? Waiting for an invite while the rest of us actually bothered to inquire?"

Harry, meanwhile, was feeling torn between guilt and anger. On one hand, Daphne had a point. But the fact was that there was far more to the story than what Daphne believed. He refused to allow her to continue without saying nothing of his own.

"Let me tell you something, Daphne," he said quietly, "human emotions aren't quite as flexible as we'd all like to think. You can't just turn them on and off, sad people can't just tell themselves to be happy. I'm sorry for not celebrating, even though I've _only _known her for a year, even though I never declared my utmost devotion to her, even though it might seem to you that I _clearly _have no right to be sad. I give you my _utmost_ apologies for acting the way I have, but don't even _think _you can tell me to 'snap out of it'." He glared. "Not to mention, you're asking me to justify my emotions. I'm telling you that me ever having to justify how I feel is _nobody's_ business, least of all yours."

Around him, spectators watched with wide eyes. Harry had half a heart to transfigure their food into popcorn; that would complete the scene.

As always, the Slytherin crowd remained silent. Harry inwardly laughed. He should have known it was too much to hope for any volunteers at his back.

Daphne burst into laughter.

"And the sad thing is that I'm not even surprised," she spat. "When was the last time any of us were entitled to even a _pinch _of _Harry Potter's _business?"

And just as quickly, the odds were back in Daphne's favour.

"You never seem to think much about the rest of us, do you? It's always about _your_ politics, forming connections that benefit _you_, trying to save the world and all that, while the rest of us little people live on without getting so much as a second glance from the great and mighty Harry Potter."

Beside her, Blaise's gaze was fixated on his plate.

Harry scoffed. "You seem to think I have a remarkably short memory, or were you just hoping I'd forget the time the lot of you ditched me the instant you felt Malfoy was close to replacing me?"

Daphne flushed but remained indignant. "And naturally, you just _assume _we owe you our loyalty or something. We're not chess pieces, Potter. You can't just expect us to take your stand when you've never even bothered with trying to win ours. So not all of us survive Killing Curses in our spare time. That doesn't automatically make us beneath you. If you expect some sort of blind following where the rest of us don't exist until you need us, then think again, _mate."_

"She likes you, you know," Blaise muttered to them minutes before Transfigurations as they waited for McGonagall to appear. "Daphne I mean."

Harry turned around and stared at his friend incredulously. "Correct me if I'm wrong Blaise," he responded, voice delivering his surprise, "but did she not just yell at me in front of the entire school?"

Blaise snorted. "You really are a dim one at times, mate," he mused.

"You think what she did was right?" he muttered.

Blaise gave it to him bluntly. "What she did was heartless, but you've got to stop underestimating the rest of us. Maybe in your grand narrative of a life, we're just the supporting characters, but don't think for a minute that we value any less. Lately, it just feels like everything you do, the rest of us are being left out. I'm saying this on behalf of everyone. Surely, we still matter.

"Not to mention," Blaise added just as McGonagall entered the classroom, "Luna still deserves an apology. You've been pretty brutal, adopting her then abandoning her to the rest of us. Even for a misfit, she deserves better."

Harry sighed, then wordlessly shook his head.

Despite the petulance that lingered behind Daphne's demand for him to stop mourning, both Daphne and Blaise had made something clear - Their objections shone doubt over his leadership, a doubt that could very well be present in every other corner of Hogwarts. The Weasley twins and Hermione, Luna and the other Ravenclaws Cho and Marietta. He was letting them down in dismissing their presence and taking them for granted. Now was not the time to lose whatever precarious support he still received.

_The road ahead might be mine to walk, but that road doesn't have to be an empty one._

His emotions retained their potency in the days to come, but he was markedly more mature. He made more of an effort during meals to socialise around his table. In the library, he hunted down Hermione and apologised for acting so out of character. Hermione had blushed a little out of surprise at his sudden courtesy, then ran off stammering something that sounded like forgiveness. The Weasley twins were good sports, who brushed off his words with a "glad you're back, mate". The Ravenclaws were a little trickier, needing something more than a simple apology to be pacified. At the end of a long talk, it seemed that most of the Ravenclaw girls were resolved in believing his innocence, perhaps with the exception of Marietta who remained slightly hesitant.

Then there was Luna. Harry finally found her wandering the Halls one afternoon.

"Luna," he called.

Luna turned, her wide eyes staring at him vacantly. "Harry Potter," she said calmly. "Have you come to yell at me again?"

Harry shook his head vehemently. "I'm sorry, Luna," he said. "I got angry at you last time for something that wasn't completely your-"

Luna waved his apology off dismissively. "It was my fault you know," she said lightly, "I'm very good at saying the wrong things at the wrong time. Don't worry, Harry Potter. _The Quibbler's _stopped printing things about your great-aunt now."

He nodded. "So...friends?"

Luna beamed. "I'm honoured to be your friend, Harry."

"Thanks, Luna. Er, what are you doing right now?"

Luna pointedly at her bare feet, her smile dimming. "My room mates like to hide my things around the school, you see."

Harry frowned, wondering which of the Ravenclaws he'd talked to earlier could have done something so cruel, then berated himself for being so self-absorbed, having forgotten about the ill-treatment Luna had received in the beginning of the year.

"Come on, Luna," he finally said, "let's look for your shoes together."

It took another hour and the employment of several more than willing Slytherins, but eventually they spotted the shoes tucked behind a suit of armour. Luna had been mightily pleased, so much that she gave him one of her corkscrew necklaces the next time she saw him.

_And Harry Potter is back, _he thought.

As tiring as it was at times, he held up his image the best he could as the days passed. This was not the time to lose his grip; only too many people were waiting for him to stumble. Cassiopeia would probably return from the dead and _kill _him should he do so.

It was about time he got his act together.

The opportunity came for him to inquire over both Cassiopeia and Draco the very next day, when all three were called to Headmaster's Office. Before entering, Harry quickly seized the chance to speak to them.

"How are you?"

Draco shrugged, not meeting his eyes. "Definitely not an occasion to celebrate over," he muttered. "Though I can't say I'm all that surprised – Queenie here only told us as much when she came here."

Harry, still mystified over why Draco called her _Queenie _but also knowing it was an inconvenient moment to bring up the question, turned to Cassiopeia. She seemed noticeably less indifferent, but similarly shrugged. "I was prepared."

"Cass-"

"Let's just enter," she said sharply.

It turned out Dumbledore had summoned the three for the purpose of notifying them of the reading of Cassiopeia's Black will, set to commence in a week's time.

"It will be held at the Ministry," Dumbledore informed them. "Certain officials have seized the opportunity to confiscate nearly all her assets under the guise of searching for illegal objects."

Draco and Cassiopeia both responded with indignation. "That's not fair! She has her own solicitor, they can't just take over his job!"

"How dare they just take her things? My father-"

"They can't look in her Gringotts vault," Harry interrupted, remembering Gringotts as one of the safest places in the world – what with such tight goblin security that rarely agreed with the Wizarding Ministry, it was doubtful that the goblins would hand over to the officials the right to sift through their vaults.

Dumbledore nodded. "You are right, Harry. That is the one area of the Wizarding World they have little control over but rest assured Cassiopeia couldn't possibly have fitted all her wealth inside one vault.

"This is evidently a setup," he continued. "Cassiopeia Black knew many witches and wizards, some of which held reputations questionable in the eyes of the Ministry. This is an opportunity for them to officially arrest any of these unconventional and so far unconvicted individuals."

The message was clearer than ever – Pius Thicknesse was far from over his failed attempt at arresting Harry Potter, and fate had presented them with another brilliant scheme. Should anything Cassiopeia Black had bequeathed him with in her will be even the slightest bit illegal, Harry was doomed.

The day of the will's reading came only too soon. During Potions, an anxious Cassiopeia asked for Draco and Harry, to which Snape consented with a simple nod. The two packed their things, Draco swiftly and Harry fumbling a little, mind preoccupied. Then all three made their way to Dumbledore's office.

They arrived at the Ministry through the Headmaster's Floo, finding themselves in a chamber packed with numerous witches and wizards. Draco and Cassiopeia immediately dispersed into the crowd, no doubt eager to get away from him. Harry focused his attention on the people who Cassiopeia must have noted in her will. Some of them Harry could identify – Longbottom's Black grandmother, the Crouch sisters (whom he carefully avoided), an unsurprising Bathilda Bagshot who was busy chatting to a witch until he caught her eye.

"Harry dear!" she cried. "How delightful to see you once again."

Harry nodded, noting the badly muffled gasps from several people nearby as they noticed him.

Professor Slughorn was also nearby, looking as if he had won the lottery as he moved from person to person; no doubt most of them were famous in one way or another. The Malfoys were also present, standing with Draco and Cassiopeia both at their sides.

"Madam," he said quietly to Bathilda, "I read my great-aunt's obituary the other-"

"Oh, and how horrendous it was!" Bathilda chorused. "It was sent to me, you know. First time I've read anything the _Daily Prophet_'spublished in ages. What a load of tosh all of it was."

Harry blinked.

"One mustn't only regard someone's life through the lens of one pair of eyes, you know. Many facets make up a person and personally. A true historian knows to examine all his sources before placing the judgement." She winked. "Truthfully, I find Cassiopeia's literary works far more outstanding than her politics."

Harry blinked once more. _Of course. The article didn't even mention anything beyond her ties with Grindelwald and Tom Riddle. _

"Besides," Bathilda continued, "all that happened _decades _ago. Cassiopeia's always had her morals fixed where they were, but she _could _see the flaws. I'd say that over time, she realised her mistakes in entrusting her faith onto symbols that were, ultimately, just human."

The moment at the graveyard suddenly came back to him – his great-aunt had for an instant broken down, clearly disillusioned about something after noting the symbol etched on the Peverell grave. _We trusted in the wrong man. _Could it be possible that she had realised her mistakes after all?

All too soon, their attention was called by a sour-looking wizard.

"'Being of sound mind and in the presence of witnesses, I hereby bequeath my estate as follows'," the solicitor began. "'To Lucretia Prewitt, I leave you my house-elf Timmy, under the condition that he provides his service solely for persons of Black blood and no other.'"

Lucretia seemed mightily pleased.

"'To Clement and Celeste Crouch, I leave you the pair of Black crests that hang in my living room, under the hopes that they will inspire a deeper understanding into what it means to be a Black."

The pair flushed, eyes shifting sourly.

The list continued, seeming endless. In death, his great-aunt had taken the opportunity to clear all her long-standing debts, misunderstandings and rivalries.

"'To my longest friend and most persistent critic Bathilda Bagshot, I give you my entire collection of historical works and the sum of one thousand galleons under the condition that you spend this money on what you have always desired…

"'To Draco Malfoy and his parents Narcissa and Lucius, I give you my Australian estate, where good weather and abundant sunshine will hopefully endow you with healthier complexions…To Callidora Black, I give you…'"

The Malfoys let out a collective breath, evidently disappointed. Of everything their wealthy relative could have given them, it was almost insulting to think that all they would receive was a mere house.

"'To Horace Slughorn, I give you my entire collection of crystallised pineapples, all forty-eight different flavours, as well as my potions vault, under the condition that you will supply my ward Harry Potter with any training that he requires for the next two years…"

"'To Cassiopeia Black, my youngest and longest ward, I give you the piano that was already yours, my house-elf Remmy, my wardrobe and my entire collection of jewellery, under the condition that she does nothing to undermine the Black name."

It seemed like quite a hefty inheritance to Harry, but Cassiopeia was evidently disappointed. Money wasn't mentioned, nor estates, the two worthiest components of any will. As a parentless child with no sanctuary, she would most likely have to depend on another relative until she came of age, something that Harry knew her pride would never allow her to do without feeling humiliation. To worsen matters, his great-aunt's condition was a great insult. After all Cassiopeia had done for her namesake, their relative had perhaps still sensed her ward's lingering resentment at being second to Harry in her guardian's eyes.

"The remainder of my estate, including my house, the manuscripts of all my works – finished or unfinished – and my Gringotts vault, I leave to my ward Harry Potter," the wizard continued, "along with the remainder of my personal possessions, all my business holdings and assets, which Mister Potter will manage to the best of his abilities after my death. Signed, Cassiopeia Black.' Ladies and gentleman, that is all."

The will had finished. No one seemed greatly surprised by the ending, though nearly everyone was dissatisfied.

"The Ministry would like to say a few words before you leave," the solicitor said frostily. "Cassiopeia Black's will has been extensively reviewed for illegal or highly dangerous objects." No one seemed surprised by this. "The Ministry has appraised as much of her properties and assets as within the rights of the law, and nothing of questionable nature has been discovered…thus far."

The Ministry solicitor was glaring directly at Harry now. "Of course, should any part of her will expose itself to be of a corrupt nature in the near future, the Ministry would like to warn you now that we will not hesitate to arrest its keeper."

There came a pause in the room as the Blacks looked between each other and discretely at Harry. It was obvious who the Ministry was targeting – Harry was now the owner of his great-aunt's Gringotts vault, the contents of which remained a mystery to those barred out of entering goblin territory unauthorised, and it provided a brilliant excuse for the people who were desperately searching for ways to pin him down.

He was no longer treading on thin air – he was stamping on the fine needles that lay beneath his bare feet.

_-wizardry-_

That weekend, during his lesson with Professor Slughorn, his tutor made it clear that under no terms was he to visit Gringotts until matters concerning the Heir of Slytherin were settled.

"The Ministry is desperate enough to use any excuse to incarcerate you, Harry," Slughorn told him. "As soon as you step foot into Gringotts, they will undoubtedly be notified and Aurors will be ready by the time you leave goblin territory."

"They can't," Harry said disbelievingly.

"They will," his tutor confirmed. "There's little we can do about it, except…" He paused. "How are your relations with the goblins?"

Harry shrugged. "Alright, I suppose." Then a thought struck. "Wait – I just remembered something. I saved a goblin's life before First Year. They owed me a debt, which I used to help myself get emancipated…"

Slughorn's eyes widened at the revelation. "Why excellent," he exclaimed. "We can easily write to Gringotts and ask for a summary of Cassiopeia's assets, a small favour in the name of their debt."

Which was what they did immediately. Within an hour, Gringotts had replied with a thick roll of parchment that effectively listed the entire contents of Cassiopeia's vault. Unsurprisingly, half of her assets consisted of illegal Dark objects, some of which Harry guessed were the typical Black heirlooms his great-aunt had hoarded for years. Then there was the money, an expectedly long value that Harry pushed to one side. What interested him the most was what came near the end of the list.

"Cassiopeia's second revised will?" he read incredulously.

Professor Slughorn was equally surprised. "That sly girl," he murmured. "She must've known all along…"

It made sense, Harry thought. The Ministry-read will was squeaky-clean, something that seemed unlikely when most of the recipients were Blacks who bordered if not firmly sat on the Dark side. No doubt during her last days, Cassiopeia had stashed nearly everything that was hers into Gringotts and leaving a few inconsequential things that could not fit behind so as to not raise suspicions, under the hopes that Harry would carry out her true wishes.

At the thought of the fact that his great-aunt had known of her demise for so long before it would arrive, Harry swallowed thickly.

A part of him was torn, knowing that even in death, his great-aunt expected him to obey and carry out his duties unquestionably. And after all that he had read, knowing what he did about her now, how could he? It was one thing to do something out of loyalty, but sometimes what came first was the substance of morality. Harry wasn't dumb – he held no delusions to the fact that the contents of her second will, stashed away from the public eye in her Gringotts vault, would consist of _illegal_ Dark objects. And upon knowing this fact, Harry had to consider a few things. First, what on Earth did he owe any of these people, these arrogant, conservative Purebloods who looked at him down the bridges of their upturned noses and sneered at his appearance, if not at the sole fact that he was a Half-blood?

For despite Dumbledore's reluctant tolerance of Harry's association with the Blacks, the Headmaster's earlier warnings lingered in the recesses of Harry's mind. He had known of the consequences when he'd stepped foot into Slytherin territory, first on the first day at Hogwarts, then again at Artcurus Black's funeral. The people and their calculative dispositions were faults he had learnt to adjust to. Their political views were ones Harry had so far avoided confronting, though that was largely due to the flexibility of their self-preservation rather than anything on his part. He had, for purposes of survival as well as others of pleasure, forged relations with what people like his parents – and invariably the Weasleys –considered to be 'The Other Side'.

But despite this success, several things made it impossible for Harry to truly blend in. Perhaps most shocking for the Slytherins was that on top of all of this, Harry Potter was also a Parcelmouth and for some, the natural contender for the Heir of Slytherin. Exceeding that was his position as the emancipated owner of two seats in the Wizengamot. But one identity no one could dispute was the lightning scar on his forehead, despite being obscured under his cap most of the time.

He had, first and foremost, a prophecy on his shoulders. One which defeat had been a possibility so horrific that it had required his parents' sacrifice just to thwart. A year ago, Snape had given it to him – to die or to live, and he wished to live.

To carry out his great-aunt's will as she had undoubtedly planned for him to do would inevitably mean for Harry to aid the very side his parents had fought their lives against.

He mentally scoffed. _You underestimate me, aunt. Helping my enemies is something no sane person would ever do. _

But another, more rational part of him saw something of an opportunity.

No one except himself, Professor Slughorn and Gringotts knew of this second will's existence, and if they did, they were reluctant to ponder over its absence.

Clearly, the second will was just a bonus – he could go on living his life forever withholding its contents and no one would suspect a thing. Or, he could give them out to individuals whenever he desired, without ever having to mention the will. It could be from the kindness of his heart for all they knew.

Because Cassiopeia had left the will in her – now Harry's – vault and had filled it with objects Harry could distribute at his _own_ discretion.

Realisation dawned.

His great-aunt had just given him a pot full of gold with the implied intention to use them as bargaining chips when it came to manoeuvring political support or alliances.

She had known of the precarious situation Harry would inevitably fall into, sometime after her death, and she had prepared for it.

That _or_, you know, Harry had opportunistically thought up the idea himself.

Naturally, that had him split. On one hand, he could be potentially distributing Dark objects. It was even just being the Boy-Who-Lived. As someone who aspired to be part of the Wizengamot someday, this was an act of immorality with severe consequences. But on the other hand, the Ministry – Crouch, the backstabber – was perhaps breaths away from arresting him. Desperate situations called for aid and the will provided him with that.

Either way, one thing was obvious - he _needed _to see that will.

At this, Slughorn shook his head emphatically. "Impossible at the moment, even for you Harry. Just stay seated for a while longer and we'll wait till this is all over."

He sighed helplessly.

"There _are _stillthings she's left for you outside of Gringotts, you know," his tutor placated him. "She gave you her manuscripts of virtually everything she has ever written-"

"That reminds me, professor." Harry stared at his tutor. "How well did you know my relative, before her death?"

Horace blinked. "Why, as well as any other fellow under her employment I suppose."

"And it never occurred to you to question what a person with her past was doing supervising Harry Potter's education?"

Horace blinked once again. "I apologise, Harry. I never thought-"

"Here's what I don't understand," Harry said, tugging at his hair out of frustration. "My initial impression of men like Dumbledore was that they were totally unaccepting of the other side, that they met prejudice with prejudice. He tried to convince me to move out of Slytherin, you know. And when that didn't work, he tried to convince me to get better friends. But when it came to Cassiopeia Black being my guardian, the propagandist of both Grindelwald and Tom Riddle, why was it that even Dumbledore never said a word of complaint, not a single thing against her? Why was it that all of you just accepted her role in my life and told me I could do worse? Why is it that even in death, no one dares to sully her name, except for the likes of the _Daily Prophet, _who only did it in an attempt to discredit me?"

Slughorn watched him as he ranted with soft eyes.

"Harry," he finally said, "your great-aunt lived a marvellously long life and she would turn in her grave should she know of the younger generation remembering her through the much exaggerated article of a corrupt newspaper. We who have lived before and through the war, we have seen things those who have only ever known prosperity and war's victory take for granted every day. Years before you entered her life, she was a figure who dwelled permanently under the light of the Wizarding media, and despite her political leanings, her sheer brilliance was what caused so many to respect and admire her. It is a great tragedy that our children should remain ignorant to all that has happened before them.

"Before you form any judgements, I think you owe it to her to read her manuscripts."

Harry sighed. Before her death, Cassiopeia had conveniently piled all her writings into one box. Unfortunately for him, the rolls of parchment had only managed to fit due to the Extension Charm placed on the box. Despite the effort it would require, he knew it owed it to her.

"Perhaps you would like me to organise them for you," Professor Slughorn offered.

Harry didn't even attempt to hide his relief.

Nearing the end of their lesson, Dirk Cresswell decided to pay them a visit. Tom, who had admitted him into the Leaky Cauldron's parlour, winked good-naturedly at Harry before leaving them. For a moment, relief flooded him. It seemed that there still existed those who saw through the holes of the press, those who were willing to support him and showed their support in even the simplest of ways.

"Potter," Cresswell began, sounding extremely tired, "is it so difficult to keep your head out of the public's eye, even for a second?"

Harry scowled. _So much for hoping for an ally._

"Granted, you hardly had the foresight to prevent a death," he continued, "but couldn't at least – I dunno – _wink less? _Merlin, you have your work cut out for you."

"My greatest apologies for the inconvenience sir," Harry remarked sourly.

"Look, I'm not here to argue," Cresswell said with equal exasperation and haste, "and certainly not with you. You have enough enemies as it is. Potter, I'm here to help."

There was silence as Cresswell waited for a response. Harry nodded patiently, leaning back to see what the man had to offer.

"I told you last time we met that Mister Crouch was planning a coup," Cresswell continued when it became evident he was going to say nothing.

"I remember it quite vividly," Harry interjected.

"Yes, well, it's going to happen soon. Really, really soon."

He nodded patiently, waiting for him to continue.

Professor Slughorn voiced his thoughts. "Would you like to elaborate, Dirk? You've been awfully brief about this alleged coup. Can you at least tell us when it'll be?"

Cresswell shuffled uncomfortably. "That depends on Potter, actually," he finally answered. "It comes down to what the Boy-Who-Lived decides to spring on the Wizarding World next. With the press on the Ministry's side, it wouldn't be difficult twisting an innocent scenario into the validation the Ministry wants."

"Validation for what?"

This time, Cresswell looked him straight in the eye before answering. "Validation that you deserve to be locked up or confined, Potter."

"What?"

Several things ran through Harry's head. First, there was the imminent event of Crouch's scheme to take over the Ministry. Second, there was Harry Potter, and the efforts of the Ministry to bring him down. As for how the two were interlinked, he remained puzzled.

"What does locking me up have anything to do with Crouch gaining power?"

Cresswell shook his head. "See, here's the thing," he began. "The Ministry have got you pinned down as a – a wildcard. You're just too unpredictable. You brought down Lockhart and you brought down Skeeter, both of whom had an image in the public was booming. Merlin, before then, you even brought down _Dumbledore. _And let's not mention what you've done to You-Know-Who, _or _his vessel. Frankly, you're picking off anyone who's competing for public attention, and within a year of entering the Wizarding world, you've already gained a monopoly in terms of fame. Even just thinking about what you'll be like once you leave Hogwarts is quite frightening.

"Then there's the Ministry. You should know by now that it hates sharing the limelight. Fudge might be asking Dumbledore for help in every second problem he gets, but you don't see him boasting about it. Nor did Crouch complain when you crowned him leader of the Wizengamot – he's hoping to become the next Minister of Magic anyway, and where better to start than there? But what the Ministry hates, above all else, is being made a fool out of."

Cresswell continued. "They don't like it when an eleven-year-old kid comes along and destroys whatever semblance of peace they had with exposing You-Know-Who's presence, demanding independence with emancipation, even throwing off Dumbledore, whom they've been hoping to get rid of or hire for _years_. They don't like it when heroes they've applauded and celebrated turn out to be fools, or when a twelve-year-old kid has more control over Hogwarts than what they have ever managed to accumulate.

"Let me put it simply to you, Harry Potter. To the Ministry, you're a threat. If you weren't so good at destroying people and saving the day, they'd use you like Crouch first did to gain power. The problem is that you're becoming too volatile for your own good and in the Ministry's eyes, the Wizarding World is just better off without you."

As Cress well's long and winded monologue came to an end, the three of them sat there, two of them stunned while the last breathed heavily in an effort to gain back his momentum.

"So let me get this right," Harry finally said, slowly, "the Ministry is basically trying to make me disappear in order to get their head back in the game…"

"Yep."

"And Crouch is thinking, Why not? Might as well play a hand in it and find a use out of his downfall..."

"Er, somewhat."

"So I have the entire Ministry waiting for me to botch it up right now, with possibly the Wizengamot joining in now that its leader would like a piece of the cake, and definitely the _Daily Prophet _and Cuffe not holding back when it comes to slandering Harry Potter after a little incentive, all the while I have my school being attacked by a monster I'm supposedly responsible for."

Both Slughorn and Cresswell, shuffled uncomfortably at his bluntness.

"Crudely speaking, yes."

Harry looked between the two of them. "Any advice?"

"Try to keep your face out of the papers?" Slughorn suggested.

Cresswell coughed. "You could always attempt to track down the beast and help tame it, thus renewing your image in the public's eyes, even just temporarily. Bearing in mind that to do so would only make you seem even more of a threat to the Ministry, of course."

Harry sighed, long and hard. Life, despite his best attempts, had suddenly become a lot more complicated.

"Looks like I'm doomed then."

_-wizardry-_

Even better was news of Crouch's execution of a new Educational Decree – all whole-school activities held on school premises were to be supervised by Aurors. This of course meant Quidditch matches, during which Harry suspected Crouch had wanted a firm eye watching, but it also meant meals in the Great Hall every day. Immediately after news of its approval from Professor Slughorn, Harry saw the change in Hogwarts. The Aurors had indeed stationed themselves evenly around the Great Hall. Their presence came as a relief to most students, who naturally applauded Crouch's generous act of supplying the best-trained Aurors to protect Hogwarts and her children from whatever lurked within the castle walls.

Perhaps Harry would have been one of them, had he not known better.

The only negative impact of their presence was that the students were more convinced than ever that Slytherin house was the embodiment of all evil. That seemed to be the message endorsing Aurors to the school inevitably led to. Those who had always been hostile to his house and Harry were positively gloating with the thought that Harry was close to being caught.

The frustration followed him into the Second Year Slytherin dormitory one evening a week after the new decree had been set in place, when the one place he had hoped to find a little peace of mind and refuge from the Great Hall had descended into chaos. Yet another fight had erupted between Ron Weasley and his fellow Slytherins. This time, it involved nearly all of his Slytherin friends - Cassiopeia and Draco were absent, though not Draco's two goons, Nott probably had better things to do and wisely avoided the confrontation – as well as a couple Slytherin prefects, including Flint, who watched on.

"How dare you! You shame our house, Weasley."

"Honestly, Parkinson? There are worse things I care about."

Harry paused a little from the book he was reading, choosing for a moment to watch the situation from is bed. As always to her enemies, Pansy's words were acerbic and spiteful. But it was Ron's words that had taken him by surprise – perhaps it had something to do with their interactions between limited to nil with the boy constantly avoiding the Slytherin table during meals, but Ron seemed more…mature.

"Maybe it's just me, but have you seen what this place has done to my sister?" Ron continued. "There was a time when she knew how to smile. And, yeah, she didn't care about all that pureblood stuff."

"Slytherin isn't exactly telling her not to smile," Blaise snarled back. "Maybe your little sister's grown up. Learnt at thing or two about her loyalties."

"You should consider taking pointers, Weasley," Daphne chipped in. "Though I'm beginning to think it's too late for you. You're a blood traitor through and through."

Weasley pulled a vicious face. "Oh yeah? Still better than being a Slytherin."

Harry rolled his eyes then fell back onto his bed, so exhausted with the same handful of dirt being constantly thrown around between the two.

"It's time you learnt a lesson, Weasley. Crabbe, Goyle."

For an instant, Harry's bottom jaw dropped. He swivelled round for confirmation and, sure enough, the two goons were moving to grab hold of Ron. The power shift in the room had also changed – the others had slowly surrounded Ron, who had naturally backed away until his body hit the wall. Crabbe and Goyle each grabbed a shoulder and for an instant, a look of fear crept onto Ron Weasley's face…

Suddenly, every single wand in the room whipped out of the hands of their owner, only to land on the bed of Harry Potter. There was silence for a moment as jaws slackened. Harry took the opportunity to speak.

"Help me out here, will you," he drawled. "I can't seem to comprehend just what it is you lot plan to do to Weasley. Crabbe and Goyle physically restraining him of course only brings two possibilities to mind." Slowly, he got up of his bed. The wands flew into his palm. "Brute force or magic. Let's consider the two, shall we?

"If indeed the lot of you were planning on the former, then I commend you for your hypocrisy, resorting to _Muggle_ means to reinforce your beliefs on the very creatures you hate."

To their credit, Crabbe and Goyle seemed a little chagrined, having let go of Weasley, who merely stared at Harry incredulously.

"And if it was the latter…"

He sighed, putting off his shoes before flinging the wands back. In one movement, each returned to its much surprised owner.

_Then I am truly disappointed to see that none of you have changed since you first arrived at Hogwarts._

Daphne was the first – and only Slytherin – to say anything.

"Don't you care?" she said. "About what _he's _done?" Harry stared at Ron, who had fixed his eyes on the ground at his feet. "He's begged Dumbledore to move him into Gryffindor!"

_What?_ For a moment, Harry was rendered speechless. For a thousand years, Hogwarts had operated on a Sort-once-no-questions basis. No doubt there were students who had come before Ron Weasley, Sorted into a house they had always loathed, and no doubt such students had seen it paramount to ask their headmaster to be resorted. Reading _Hogwarts, A History _had shown that the Sorting Hat Sorted once and once only. It simply refused to allow a student into any house that wasn't its own. Why then would Ron have ever been allowed to become a Gryffindor? The idea of it wasn't just humiliating for Slytherin – it was ludicrous! Surely even Dumbledore wouldn't allow it to happen.

_Unless Ron hadn't actually been to see Dumbledore…_

At his stupefaction, Daphne grew triumphant. "That's right!" she hissed. "Like the coward he is, at the slightest bit of hardship our house goes under, he runs, tail between his legs, to his brilliant role model Dumbledore, and begs to be released from the clutches of _evil _Slytherin house, back into Gryffindor, the sanctuary of angels. So excuse me, Potter, if any of us find the need to push him a little! And if _you_ had any true loyalty to Slytherin, you wouldn't stop me – you'd join in!"

Here came a second wave of silence, in which once again all eyes cemented their gaze to Harry Potter.

It would be easy to give in to what Daphne had hoped for, he knew that. Perhaps one year ago, he would have. Indeed, on their first night at Hogwarts, hadn't he been one of the newly-Sorted Slytherins to gang up on Ron, even then? However much he liked to hope he was defending the good for evil, he knew he could not draw the line there. Ron wasn't the good guy, but nor was he bad. His fellow Slytherins had their reasons, but they weren't saints either.

And at that instant, something in him changed.

It was largely due to this change in him that, moments later and to Daphne's great disappointment, he merely shook his head and said, "You taught me how to treat my allies – so let me return the favour and teach you how to treat your enemies. Two wrongs don't make a right, Daphne. You don't fight what's wrong by being more wrong, you fight it by being the moral high ground, by being _right. _Because that's what comes with believing you are truly _better_ than your opponent."

He made his way to the door.

"It took me a while to learn what I've learnt, and I have a long way to go when comes to perfecting it. But if you don't get what I'm saying, then let me ask you. Is _this" - _He gestured at their assembly – "how Slytherin shows to the rest of the school that we're the better house?"

For he had realised something – the difference between a leader and an outcast was a simple one, something that at times he still had trouble distinguishing outside of the theoretical. Perhaps that was why for the majority of his life, he was one or the other, outcast or leader.

Retaliating cruelty with cruelty never earned you respect – only fear. He had been feared at Stonewall Primary for this reason, because in defending himself with an offense, in exchanging Dudley's punches with a pig snout, he had failed to show the other victims of Dudley's gang that he was any better. Coming to Hogwarts and discovering the Wizarding world, very little had changed. It was just a bigger playground this time, and perhaps the stakes were higher than what they had been. He had won verbal fights with the Gryffindors only to gain nothing but their resentment.

But what had earned their respect? It wasn't a show of power as the Boy-Who-Lived, or shifting the power structures of the Wizengamot. That never gained the lasting support of the majority. If anything, it only made him more vulnerable as a public figure, set him up to be doubted and outed as a future Dark wizard for those who thrived on the Tall Poppy Syndrome. Even the Weasley twins had understood it – they never cared for power or wealth, no matter how lacking they were in either. Certainly, his ability to speak well did little to change public sentiment – he could defend himself but to what end would he achieve support when his words would only lead to some feeling triumph, others bitterness and contempt? And perhaps some had gained satisfaction in hearing him yell out at Luna, but what had he achieved except the weariness and perhaps disappointment of his peers?

What did it take to be a true leader, then? Compassion and the need to serve his people, that he already knew. But at that instant, as he watched Ron knowing that should he join in with the others, things were never going to change, that Ron was merely going to walk away more convinced than ever that Slytherin was evil, he learnt something else.

What truly made a leader diverge from an outcast, what made them gain instead of lose support under the public light, was that they were willing to sacrifice some things and take hold of their humility, if it meant that they could maintain their high ground and their grasp on what they knew was right. True leaders wouldn't resort to falling to the level of their enemy just for some satisfaction in the win. Because in doing so, they automatically lost the respect of their people, and their victory would be an empty one.

Perhaps that was why Lord Voldemort was fated to lose. Very likely the Dark Lord and his followers had been powerful till the very end, but in resorting to terror and coercion to influence the Wizarding public had marked their downfall from the very beginning. The Ministry had immediately made being a Death Eater illegal. They were seen as a group that thrived on terror, to which the specifics of their ideology (beyond pureblood = good, or muggle = bad) came second, and by default the Wizarding World could never take their thinking into rational consideration. The Death Eaters were never viewed as a political party. Their shows of power and might had only frightened the public, even those who were reactionary, into turning away. And that was why the world had celebrated their defeat that fateful Halloween night eleven years ago.

For most of his life, he had been the outcast – a step away from leading his classmates on the playground, but unable to gain their friendship simply because he was seen as no better than Dudley. At Hogwarts, he remained singular, unused to having friends simply because he'd operated alone for so long. But while the haters remained ever-present in his vision, there were now also people who expected him to lead. Lead more than just a group of children at Hogwarts, but make his mark on the political stage.

Perhaps this was the moment his great-aunt had been hoping for, the first time they'd met all those years ago.

It was time Harry Potter became a leader.

Notes:

I apologise if Harry came off as a bit too weepy. Despite how mature he is, he needs to recognise that in many ways (though perhaps not mentally), he IS still a kid. This is his first instance of a relative's death which he can remember, but his grieving is more complicated than merely being sad someone who cared for him has died. To me, this was how I felt at the death of a distant relative I had previously been indifferent to. As we commemorated her departure and recounted the highs of her life, I was struck by the overwhelming regret of never having really, truly known that her life had once been a remarkable adventure. That every time I had assumed my conversational subjects were too intellectual for the likes of her, she could very well have been seething away in anger, being patronised and overlooked by someone far less experienced than she was. For Harry, this needs to be combined with his horror at discovering the other, darker side of his great-aunt's past. Something that she had thus far avoided having him uncover. This is not unlike Canon Harry discovering Dumbledore's past in the seventh book.

Harry Potter is undoubtedly growing up. This chapter marks the last phase in his transition from a boy into a leader. He's learnt quite a lot from this chapter. Daphne broke it to him the notion that the little people mattered – something that I think has been long due, as Harry's arrogance rises and he takes his Slytherin friends for granted. Perhaps some of you might think that's understandable – Harry has _so _many bigger things to worry about, but that comes with being a politician. No matter how close you are to political death, you've still got to smile and wave to your backstabbers and allies.

At the same time, what I think shouldn't be forgotten is that the downfall of many great men have been their followers. Harry's friends are far from perfect. They're still people bred with a rigid set of beliefs who only will only succeed in alienating their leader if they remain that untouchable minority. In the chapters to come, Harry is going to have to not only change into the leader that he needs to be, but he'll have to change his supporters too.

This chapter ended on a note that truly resonates with me. I have alot of admiration for the late and great Christopher Hitchens, particularly the stance he took in West Beirut in early 2009, despite the pressure the SSNP (Syrian Social Nationalist Party) have on alot of Lebanese locals. Upon spotting their political sign - literally a red Swastika in circular motion - being plastered across posters, Hitchens tookout a permanent marker and written "No, No, Fuck the SSNP".

Which was naturally spotted by a SSNP thug, who had within minutes rallied his other SSNP pals to beat up Hitch.

Hitch and the two other journalists he was with escaped onto a cab by the skin of their teeth. During the abuse, the journalists had called for the aid of a Lebanese police.

The police had backed away, fearing the SSNP.

Reflecting on his actions to Michael J Trotten, who had apologised for having not warned Hitchens of the violence the SSNP thugs were characterised by, Hitchens said this: "I appreciate that, but I would have done it anyway. One must take a stand. One simply must."

My sincerest apologies also for taking so long to post this chapter. As a writer, I suffered a moment of serious doubt. Not writer's block, just writer's doubt if you will. Any person is capable of writing, but a writer's greatest pride is being able to write well. When this comes under questioning, cue the self-doubt. I won't bore you with an elaboration into the specifics of my doubt, but for everyone reading this and anyone who has flamed an author in the past, believe me, us writers _know _our works are far from perfect. Sometimes you spelling it out for us helps, but when you sink into the act of _condemning _their work? That just hurts. If you want to see change, make it constructive. Learn to be forgiving – don't rule an author out just because the first chapter is a little dodgy. Keep in mind that often the first chapter was written years ago, like when the author was just shy of fourteen and thought what she had under her fingertips was the most exciting thing in the world. Please, please don't kill that spark. If you really want to make a difference, then help it grow. Teach that spark how to be better, bigger, brighter. Because for some of us, no matter what you say, we aren't going away. You can keep singing the same tune, but the only one listening is you, and any other person whose opinion you might unfortunately succeed in swaying.

Next: A LOT more action to make up for the lack of it in this chapter. Prepare, if you will, for a Moody-run Duelling Club. More politics next chapter of course, hopefully Horcruxes if I can make it fit, Azkaban and a bloke (someone who I genuinely swear to you you'll never guess) who escapes from there.

My 18th birthday is coming up next month, so here's to hoping I can post the next chapter before then!

quaquaquaqua


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